Fight To Hold
by karebear
Summary: "Whatever we were before, we are now the Inquisition." It's about people. Saving the world is just the bonus. AU, OC-centered DA:I
1. Chapter 1

In the grey predawn, the bar is finally completely quiet. Dust and spilled booze fill the space that seemed clean enough when they closed up last night. Eris doesn't mind. It gives her something to do. She starts a pot of water boiling, and sits in the silence.

Her head pounds, and echoes of uncertain whispers scrabble at her brain. The voices are in Tevene, a language she never hears here, and one that is growing less and less comfortable with each passing day. And even though she should be able to understand them – she can't.

The voices are accompanied by streaks of bright green light and fingers pushing at the insides of her brain. And old memories, things she hasn't quite forgotten, but wants to. No wonder she can't sleep.

Motion helps, and as she waits for the water to get warm enough to be useful, she grabs a rag and starts scrubbing down the tables and the bar. She digs at a particularly stubborn stain, feeling someone's eyes on her. She stops. And waits.

"You're up early." The voice is familiar, soft and lilting. Eris doesn't relax. "Be at ease, dear one."

Eris sets the rag down on the table and turns to her old friend. Or occasional employer. She's still not entirely certain how to describe her relationship with The Left Hand Of The Divine, except to know that she almost never refers to her that way, even in her own mind. It's just Leliana.

And Leliana could use a drink. Eris sets a bottle of whiskey down on the bar and pours a shot, sliding it over to the spymaster. Neither of them cares that the sun hasn't yet risen.

The human woman looks more worried than Eris has ever seen her. Which is saying something. Her face is drawn, with a deep furrow between her eyes. She bites her lip, and her hand falls to her waist, where Eris is certain her belt hides a knife or two.

"What's wrong?" Eris asks softly.

Leliana sighs. "Walk with me," she commands.

Eris hesitates just long enough to pour a mug of tea for her, knowing that it'll be more acceptable out on the streets of the city than a bottle of liquor would be. The Chantry's Nightengale accepts it gratefully and though she frowns when she notices that Eris has not poured a cup for herself, she does not protest it. She understands the importance of protocol and appearances. It's Orlais. _Everything_ is watched.

The shabby tavern in the merchant district is still – like everything in this city – in the shadow of the Chantry's enormous cathedral. Leliana doesn't steer her elven accomplice toward that esteemed building, however. Instead, they walk in the other direction, toward the docks. Neither of them speak, not even when Leliana stops at the water's edge, leaning over a rusty metal railing that serves as the only protection offered pedestrians from a sudden drop into the breakwater.

Eris frowns, as seagulls circle overhead. Even though the events that really concern the spymaster are taking place a world away, Eris doesn't have to work to remember what they are. "You're worried about the Conclave," she murmurs. It's not a question.

Leliana turns away from the railing, staring out into the colorful sun rising over Val Royeux. The buildings are beautiful, even more so in the dawn, but Eris just feels nervous and far too out of place. There's no mistaking the dirty looks she's getting – an elf outside the alienage. It hardly matters that she's far from the only one. Servants move smoothly through the streets, mostly unnoticed. Eris pays attention, watching the way they interact with each other, noticing which buildings they take special care to avoid.

"You're so jumpy," Leliana murmurs. But that's why she trusts Eris, after all. The elf can get places that she cannot, especially with a little help, a few whispered words, a few opened doors.

"You called me here, remember?" Eris can't help the edge of hostility that bleeds into her words, but far from calling her out on it, Leliana smiles appreciatively. She remembers when the former slave was far too afraid to invite anger.

"I did," Leliana agrees. "Tell me, what have you heard?"

Val Royeaux is a long way from Haven, where the Divine had hoped to put an end to the war ripping Thedas apart. But even here, wheels turn. Rumors fly. Leliana needs more than rumors.

Eris grinds her teeth, and avoids meeting Leliana's eye. It still bothers her, how well the other woman can read her. "Fuck the riddles," she spits, as she stares down at the dark water. "You _know_ what happened."

It's true – but Leliana is far less concerned about what _has _happened, which cannot be undone now. What matters is what _will _happen. "The Divine is dead," she says. Her voice is soft, but there is no mistaking the hardness in it, the shield that covers the fact that she's breaking inside. For now, when she needs it to, her anger can overwhelm the grief she feels in private moments.

Eris isn't sure what she expected, but this wasn't it. The news freezes her, as she begins trying to work out what this will mean.

Leliana is always at least one step ahead of her. She's been pulling strings for far longer than Eris has; she lets herself see with wider vision. Even though the news destroys her, of course she'd planned for the contingency of the complete destruction of the Conclave. Justinia had planned for it too, and Leliana holds the proof of those plans in her hand.

The parchment is pristine, the handwriting formal but familiar to the woman who has spent years reading – sometimes even forging – messages written by that same hand. There is a gentleness, almost a prayer, in the words on that page, and though Justinia knew better than to include any personalization or words of endearment in professional correspondence that might be intercepted, Leliana feels the ghosts of those moments anyway. It's not the first time the bard has wondered if there is magic she is unaware of, a way of leaving imprints in simple objects – like letters, or words, or a simple piece of paper.

Eris reaches out and takes her hand. She pushes a little, on the other woman's emotions, dampening the pain. Leliana frowns in confusion. She shakes her head, trying to clear the fog. "What are you...?" She locks eyes with Eris, pushing past the fatigue. She can rest later. Time is short. "I need you," she says, with sharp clarity. Eris doesn't look surprised – her features don't register any reaction at all. But she must've expected this, or something like it. Leliana doesn't track her down for casual chats. "With the Divine's death, the Chantry as we know it has... fallen into chaos. There must be someone who can return order and stability to Orlais. To all of Thedas!"

There is a zealous fire in her voice that Eris has never heard before. She can see the echoes of the woman who, at least according to all the stories, survived the Fifth Blight at the side of the now-dead Hero.

"You think we can fix it?" Eris asks cautiously. There is a tremor in her voice, a vulnerability, that Leliana very rarely hears. She frowns, worry for her friend momentarily overtaking all other concerns. Perhaps the spymaster is simply seeking a distraction. Or maybe she is desperate to help where she can. Leliana takes Eris' hand, waiting for the elven woman to pull away, but she doesn't.

Leliana smiles softly. With her free hand, she pushes at the carefully folded letter in her hand, opening it just slightly before flipping it closed again. She doesn't look at it. She doesn't need to, she's memorized the words. "Whatever we were before, we are now the Inquisition."

"What?" Eris asks. Her brow furrows in confusion.

"Divine Justinia... she wished more than anything for some solution to be found to the chaos and turmoil in the Chantry. And more than simply the Church. There is so much needless death. So much suffering. We are forming now an Inquisition, like the one of old, to return sanity to troubled times."

"An Inquisition? Leliana, you're not making any sense."

"There is a survivor. _One_ survivor. A man rescued from the wreckage of the Temple where the Divine's peace talks were being held. It is said that he walked out of the Fade itself, and that with him there was a golden woman. Many are hailing him as the Herald of Andraste."

"Brilliant," Eris mutters. She has little tolerance for people who tell wild stories, especially where faith is concerned. Eris likes to understand how things work. Yet another unexplained force of destruction will only make things worse, as far as she can see.

"Do you believe him?" she asks, after a moment.

Leliana holds her gaze. "I'm not sure I believe in much," she finally admits.

"That's not true," Eris blurts out, and Leliana laughs.

The elf's cheeks flush with embarrassment, but Leliana just shakes her head, still smiling. She squeezes Eris' hand. "I want you to speak your mind, little bird. You are not blind. When you see things, you should speak of them."

_But only to you_, Eris thinks. She doesn't begrudge Leliana for the gag order though. It's comforting, to have someone to report to. Someone who she can believe might be looking after her when it matters. "I just meant... you believe more than any of them, all the Chantry people I've ever met. And you believe in this Inquisition thing too."

"Perhaps I do. Or perhaps I am simply desperate."

Eris shrugs. "I want to help," she announces. She's surprised by the truth of the declaration, but she is... tired. Afraid. So sick of wandering.

Leliana once told her to keep herself open to the word of the Maker. Perhaps, she is finally beginning to hear it.

Questions crowd into her mind, overwhelming the uncertain silence. Eris knows that Leliana would answer her, truthfully, but still, she knows the time is not yet right to ask. She does not imagine that she can keep any secret from a spymaster for long. But a little while longer might be just long enough.

"Thank you, Eris," Leliana murmurs. "For now, I will be leaving you. For some time, I imagine. The Inquisition must begin in Ferelden. There, the wounds are raw. I need you here. Watch and listen."

"That's it?" Eris asks. There is something inside her that rises up in revolt, but she quashes it. Those voices never live for long inside her skin. Old habits crush them quickly, before they are ever seen by anyone on the outside. "Just watch and listen."

"For now. We must build slowly, if the foundation is to be at all stable."

"But -"

"Eris, trust me."

The elf scowls. She doesn't trust Leliana, she doesn't trust anyone, not completely. And the human woman must know that. But the Chantry spymaster does not ammend her words, and Eris finds herself nodding. Watch and listen. With a long enough, perhaps she can do far more than that.

Leliana smiles. It softens her features and makes her eyes seem a little bit brighter in the sunlight. And it makes Eris relax somewhat, though she still frowns, deep in thought and drowning in pain. Her fingers tangle in the cord that hangs around her neck.

"You still wear it," Leliana notes. Her voice is soft and soothing, barely above a whisper.

Eris shrugs. "It's habit." She lets go, letting her right hand rest on her forehead instead. Her head pounds with flashes of agony that pulse with each beat of her heart. She can barely open her eyes.

Leliana shakes her head, that familiar smile dancing on her lips. "You wear it because you want it to mean something," she insists. "That's not a bad thing."

Eris shrugs. It's not particularly a good thing, either. Especially now, when all evidence says the world is falling apart.

She doesn't mind Leliana leaving; she sees the woman only once or twice a year as it is. But she notices the Chantry spymaster has been keeping close since the burning of Halamshiral. Since then, she has become more than a boss Eris occasionally reports to.

"You don't have to worry about me," Eris tells her. She's been taking care of herself for so long that she can't imagine not doing so, for one thing. And for another, Leliana already carries the weight of the world on her shoulders. She worries about so much.

Leliana holds her gaze for a long moment, enough time for Eris to be accutely aware of the fear of loss the other woman carries inside her, pulling her down from the inside out, an empty hole she's never filled.

"I'll be fine," Eris says. She doesn't bring up the other woman's ghosts. There is nothing to gain by doing so.

"Be careful," Leliana orders.

Eris nods.


	2. Chapter 2

They split up, with Eris only barely aware of where Leliana is going and what her plans are. She'll have enough to keep her occupied, even without the newly formed Inquisition. Orlais appears to be collapsing in every way possible. It has been for a long time; it's accelerating now.

The poor of the cities – elves and humans alike – attempt to survive the way they always have. Eris snatches odd jobs whenever she can, but it seems to get more difficult with every passing day. Between the civil war among the nobles, the collapse of the Circles, and the rumors she's hearing of the very sky ripping apart, everyone is twitchy. Soldiers conscript able-bodied fighters wherever they can find them, and human Guard patrol the overcrowded alienages more fiercely than they ever have.

They leave her alone, for the most part, in exchange for free booze, or simply because they don't see her. She can't always hide in plain sight, but she can when it matters, using tricks she's been perfecting since she was a child. It isn't hard at all for an elf to be invisible in Orlais.

"You know, you're pretty good at disappearing when you want to," a familiar rumbling voice points out.

Eris whirls around to see the one-eyed Qunari mercenary staring at her. She knows him. Everyone knows him. He's hard to miss. The Iron Bull, mercenary for hire. Expensive, deadly, and just mysterious enough that people assume he must be worth what he charges. He's never failed a job that Eris has ever heard of. He's very, very good at what he does. And she's one of the few people in Orlais who know that 'what he does' is report to the Qunari's private network of spies, the Ben-Hassrath.

Somehow she isn't disturbed by the idea of him tracking her down. She isn't even surprised.

"Missed me, did you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"There's a lot of worrisome things going on," she points out, keeping her voice even.

"I heard about the Conclave," he grunts. "Hard not to."

"So... what? You're here for information?"

"I'm here for a drink."

"I'm not working tonight."

Bull shrugs. "Good. I'll buy for both of us."

Eris sighs, but walks with him back to the tavern where she's been collecting her most recent pay, noticing as she does so that he doesn't appear to need her guidance. She fiddles with the Chantry amulet around her neck and wonders how long the Chargers have been keeping tabs on her. The bar was crowded last night, and there were plenty of soldiers in the place, but it unsettles her that she didn't pick any of them out. They couldn't have been spying on her for more than a day, surely?

"Relax, would you?" the Qunari grumbles. "You're still a good spy. I'm just better."

Eris ignores the obvious bait, much to The Iron Bull's annoyance. He perks up when she slips behind the bar to pour him a double-shot of good brandy without waiting for him to ask for it. He accepts it gratefully, raising a silent toast before knocking it back.

Eris smiles shyly and returns to the stool at the end of the bar, next to where he's standing. "Why are you really here?" she tries again.

"Would you believe I came to see you?"

She frowns, more irritated by her response than to the question itself. She doesn't want to want him close. To look forward to seeing him. She recognizes the feelings of attraction, a longing for something like friendship to fill the deep holes in her life. But it's dangerous. It has never worked out, not for long. Every relationship she's ever struggled to build has crumbled, or been ripped away. She isn't sure she has it in her to see that happen again.

"You alright?" The Iron Bull asks. He kisses Eris gently at the base of her neck, holding her close. He gives her room to pull away, and she _does _hold herself at a distance. But she allows the gestures of affection, more than he thought she would. She even smiles at him as he unwraps himself from her body. It feels good to have a barmaid on his knee. Even better when it's her.

He helps himself to a beer, working the tap behind the bar like he owns the place. A few of the other patrons raise an eyebrow, but no one protests, and Bull grins, waving cheerfully at the assembled Orlesians. He sets the beer in front of Eris, figuring the liquid might do her good.

"Hey," he grunts. "I'm sure your Chantry minders are fine."

In truth, he's certain of no such thing. The world has certainly gone to shit rather speedily. The Ben-Hassrath has its collective trousers in the tightest knot Bull's ever seen. They're afraid. Whatever's going on, it's beyond the boundaries of nations or belief systems. And they want him at the source, as quick as he can get there. He hasn't told his crew yet, though he knows they'll follow him.

"You could be a Charger, you know?" he says, glancing at Eris over the top of his tankard. It's not the first time he's made the offer. It's not the first time she's turned it down.

"A mercenary?" she snorts. "No thanks."

"A spy for hire is better?"

Eris sets the bottle of liquor she's been pouring down gently on the bar. "Leliana took care of me when I needed help. I owe her."

Bull nods. He can respect that.

"Take care of yourself," he tells her. He leans over the bar for one more quick kiss.

Before he leaves, he slips a few gold coins into her hand, watching as she tucks the money away carefully. He knows she isn't planning to stay here, any more than he is. He wonders whens he'll see her again.

* * *

"Rough night?" Krem asks, far too cheerfully, as he slides a mug of coffee over to his Qunari boss. They're sitting in a different tavern from the one where Bull had spent a pleasant evening with Eris, yet a dive bar is a dive bar. And a dive bar in the daytime is truly one of the most depressing places Bull can imagine spending his time. He'll be glad to get moving again. Well, mostly glad. There are things he will miss, but he doesn't let himself dwell on them.

He offers a grunt of acknowledgement to Krem's question, and rolls his single eye. He takes a sip of the coffee, sighing with pleasure as it slides down his throat. The drink is hot, dark, and very expensive, and he appreciates the boost it gives him as the world drags him into wakefulness.

Heavy wooden slats shield the bar from the worst of the morning's brightness outside. He and Krem are lurking in comfortable shadows, but that doesn't change the fact that he has work to do. "Where're the others?" he growls.

"Around," Krem notes. "Gathering intel. Supplies."

Bull snorts. Sleeping off a hangover, more like. But he knows his team; they'll come together when he needs them.

He rubs one huge hand over his face and finishes the coffee, shaking his head and blinking a few times, startling himself to full alertness. "Let 'em know we'll be moving east by midday. We're here to fight, not lollygag."

Krem nods, accepting the order. But he doesn't stop staring at Bull.

"_What_?" the Qunari snaps.

"You've got that look," Krem points out. He leans back casually in the bar's wooden chair, tilting it backward to rest at an angle against the wall.

"The one that says I'm going to wipe that obnoxious smirk off your face, Aclassi?"

"You like her."

"She's pretty. Good enough in the sack."

In truth, Bull had spent the previous night alone, as Krem is no doubt perfectly well aware. But he's got a reputation to maintain. She's just a barmaid. That's all there is to it.

He repeats the excuse without much conviction, but Krem doesn't fight him on it. The Chargers' lieutenant simply gathers up his gear, settles their tab, and heads out into the city to gather up the rest of the band.

He finds most of the crew already waiting for him out in their camp a few miles outside the city. The Chargers love the entertainment of a soldiers' bar, where there's always drinking, brawling, and gambling to be had, but spending the night inside the walls of Val Royeaux requires more awareness of the niceties of culture than most of them have the patience to bother with.

Krem gives the boys a hand taking down the last of the tents, relaying Bull's message casually as he carefully stows their gear into weatherproof packs.

"The Inquisition?" Stitches repeats dully. Krem nods, winding a spool of excess rope around a handful of tent stakes. Behind the healer, the angry elf – Dalish – shakes her head and spits.

"I thought we weren't tied down to nobody," Skinner growls.

"This isn't up for debate!" Krem snaps. "If you don't like it, you're free to find another company."

"You know we wouldn't do that," Dalish gripes. She's keyed up here, her fingers constantly flexing around the supple staff she likes to pretend isn't a staff at all. Her eyes scan the alleyways for threats with even greater vigor than the rest of them. She doesn't take well to cities, at least not Orlesian ones. A few miles away isn't far enough, not for her. Of all of them, she's probably the most glad for the opportunity to head into the wildlands of Ferelden. Krem nods, once, accepting her comment, and her loyalty. After a moment, the rest of the Chargers fall into step behind the two of them.

The trek to Haven is long; weeks of slow, monotonous travel, through mountains and roads that are disturbingly empty. Krem keeps an ear open for word of any opportunity for coin or information they can find along the way. They ride in trade caravans for the most part, guarding the valuable cargo in exchange for the passage. Krem is used to moving, and he doesn't mind the trip, although the Chargers' sniping begins to wear at him after a while. It's a good thing they're a small band, loyal enough to shut their yaps and take orders when its important.

"There's work on the Storm Coast," Bull tells him, when they've crossed into Ferelden. "Take the boys and let 'em have a little fun."

Krem frowns, wondering where the Qunari's off to, but he nods and accepts the order. He doesn't question Bull, he trusts him. It feels good have someone he can trust.

It feels good to be moving on their own too, Krem thinks, as he marches through the shifting sands and sticky air. He could use a little fun too, after all of that time cramped into caravan wagons, taking orders from ignorant fools who knew about coin but couldn't find the sharp end of a sword.

He rolls his shoulder and stretches his arms, cracks his knuckles, his armor clinging to him like a second skin as he scans the coast for bandits – or any other threat.

Bull had split off from the rest of the Chargers at the crossroads of the Hinterlands. Krem wonders idly if the boss is meeting up with some Ben-Hassrath contact or something. It doesn't matter. He'll catch up sooner or later, and the contract on the coast is easy work, compared to a lot of the shit they'd dealt with in Orlais.

The men they're searching for teem over the hills like ants, though Krem finds himself wondering who there is nearby to bandit _from_. But someone offered Bull the job, so Krem settles in as Grim notches an arrow and takes down one a target from the middle of the camp across the ridge. The shot is truly a thing of beauty, though the man's companions don't appear to share that opinion. They panic, charging into the Chargers waiting ambush. Krem barely has time to get his sword dirty. The Chargers are well worth their cost.

He breaks open a keg as they set camp, both to celebrate their victory in battle and to give the rest of the men some incentive to finish their chores sooner rather than later.

The next morning, Krem is watching the waves crash against the shore while cleaning his armor when Bull strolls over the dunes, a grin on his face and human kid behind him, struggling to keep pace with the Qunari's long footsteps.

Krem glances at his boss, enough to notice nothing out of the ordinary, but he focuses on the newcomer. Bright eyes, dark hair, a face that looks as if it's never seen a razor. And an eerie green glow, radiating from the palm of his left hand.

Behind him, Dalish whistles softly.

"Holy shit," Rocky grunts.

The Iron Bull lets his single eye wander over the beach, nodding his appreciation of the pile of corpses, stripped of useful gear, waiting to be burned. "Gentlemen," he announces, his voice deep and authoritative. The Chargers stop their drinking long enough to pay attention as the Qunari sweeps one of his huge hands toward the bewildered looking young man behind him. "I present Inquisitor Trevelyan."


	3. Chapter 3

"Erm... hello," the Inquisitor says. He holds out a hand for Krem to shake, and smiles sheepishly. Krem glances at Bull, raising an eyebrow, but he shakes the kid's hand.

"Joining us for a drink?" he asks the boy.

Bull chuckles, and even the deep resonance of his voice is enough to make the newcomer flinch. But Krem notices the way the Qunari follows the young man's lead. Bull sees something in him, and Krem has generally learned to respect his boss' judgement of character.

Bull sits atop one of the currently untapped kegs, listening to his Chargers' cheerful chatter. The Inquisitor is more solemn, although he accepts a drink when it's offered.

They camp for the night, Bull keeping watch easily while the rest of them sleep. Krem wakes up before the dawn, strapping on his armor and hiking along the cliffs. He isn't surprised to see Bull and the Inquisitor laughing together like old friends.

"Should I tell the Chargers we're moving on?" he asked.

"What?" Bull looks up, meeting his lieutenant's eye. Krem doesn't repeat his question – he doesn't need to. He simply crosses his arms over his chest and leans casually against a nearby tree, waiting for the answer.

Bull glances at the boy standing with him on the edge of the cliff. "What do you say, Boss? Will you have us."

"I'd be happy to," Jacob Trevelyan replies softly. He runs his hand through too-long hair, and shrugs. "It seems to me like the world needs all the help it can get."

Bull grunts softly in agreement, then waves his hand, signaling his men to break camp and follow the Inquisition banner. Haven, their base camp is called. It has a nice ring to it despite the destruction there.

When he says as much to the boy leading their charge, Jacob only shrugs and says he didn't name the place. He seems somewhat moody, but Bull figures that may have as much to do with the sudden drenching storms that unleash themselves on the aptly named Coast than anything else. All of them are completely soaked through within an hour. Bull keeps on eye on his Chargers, but their morale seems mostly undisturbed by the weather. Maybe there's something else on Trevelyan's mind.

"Tell me about the Chargers," the boy demands. Bull smiles. He knows the kid is looking for a distraction and the Qunari will take any excuse to regale an audience with tales of his band's more exciting and unusal fights. He's barely begun the one about the giants before Stitches and Skinner have taken over the storytelling, leaving Bull to linger behind the group and keep an eye on their rear.

By the end of the next day, the storms have abated, though the clouds still remain heavy in the sky. They cross through the low mountain passes into the more populated villages and farms that feed the cities of Ferelden. The commonfolk watch them warily, shying away especially from Bull.

"We should camp," Jacob sighs, somewhat reluctantly, when it becomes obvious that they won't be able to make it to any kind of true civilization before dark.

"Cheer up, Boss." Bull claps the boy on the shoulder quickly before he moves on to begin setting a fire as the Chargers pitch a few tents. "Out here, we don't have to mind our manners."

Jacob flashes the Qunari a shy smile, but The Iron Bull believes the Inquisitor is stronger than he initially appears. The opinion is confirmed when the boy volunteers to take first watch. He holds on to a bow, a little too tightly – he treats the weapon like a security blanket, but Bull can hardly blame him.

"You know how to use that thing?" he asks the kid.

"I made it. It's mine." Jacob glances up at the mercenary, holding his gaze. "Of course I know how to use it."

"Care to show me?" Bull really is just curious, and always up for watching someone participate in the glorious dance of violence. Maybe shooting something could make the kid smile.

But Jacob just shakes his head. "Maybe another time."

Bull nods his understanding.

In the morning, by the time Bull's gotten cleaned up and dressed and stumbled out of his tent, the kid is already cleaning the carcass of a deer. Jacob is smiling, his bow resting against a tree a few feet away. "A few of your mercenaries are fishing upriver," he tells the Qunari.

"We got a sudden shortage of rations?" Bull asks.

Jacob shrugs. "The people around here do. This place is full of refugees. There's not enough fertile land, and even if there were, it's too late to plant. It'll snow within the month."

"Did you grow up on a farm?" Bull asks. He sits down and watches the kid work.

"Not exactly. My father owned some land, though. I ran around by myself a lot. Talked to people."

Bull nods. "You're doing good work, Boss. I'll break camp." It's easy enough to manage on his own; they're traveling light. He slings the last sack over his shoulder after a quarter of an hour, and heads up the river to help his boys pull fish off the line.

"I never figured we'd be taking orders from Chantry do-gooders," Rocky muses. He tromps behind Krem, keeping an eye open for signs of threat on the dangerous roads of the Hinterlands.

Most of what they see is no different from what they'd dealt with in Orlais, refugees pushed out of their homes by the war that is swallowing the world. There are differences. The people here have always been poorer, and more rugged, and their land is still struggling to come back to life after the Blight of a decade ago. When Krem looks at them, he sees mostly the dead-eyed stares of the starving and desperate. "These people won't survive the winter, not without help. If the Inquisition's passing out blankets under their flag, well... we've fought for far worse men."

"Don't get any ideas that this isn't gonna be a hard war," Bull says. "Just because we're helping people on the way."

Krem nods, knowing the Qunari wouldn't saddle them to a cause unless he believed in it. The poor kid from Tevinter doesn't know too much about the Qun, and most of what he thought he knew, the Bull has already proven wrong. But believing, and belonging to a larger purpose, that he gets. "You believe that stuff about demons?" he asks.

Bull nods toward the sky. "Hard not to."

* * *

Haven was an unsettling village when Leliana was first here during the Blight; now, it's nothing more than a graveyard. Her eyes take long seconds to adjust to the gloomy interior of the Chantry after she walks in from the bright light of day. There are echoes and whispers in this place. She shivers, and pushes them to the back of her mind. There's no _time_.

The boy – Jacob – is already gone more than he stays, and she can't help but admire him for it. Refugees are pouring into the fledgling Iquisition's base of operations, and nearly all of them bring stories of a young man with a glowing green hand stopping to help them with some minor task, handing out food, sharing a drink or a quick conversation. Leliana isn't sure what to make of the voices that are already starting to attribute the boy's miraculous survival to Andraste, but from what she can see, he's a good man. Perhaps not as pious as the Chantry might prefer, but he is doing real work on the ground while the Church leaders squabble in their cloisters. She has no regrets about throwing her support behind him. She's also not optimistic enough to believe that he can lead whatever they're creating all on his own. She's not sure anyone can.

"There is work to be done, Varric!" A woman's voice suddenly snaps, loudly enough to echo through the Chantry's quiet hush.

Leliana glances up, rubbing at her temples to preemptively ward off the headache that Cassandra Pentaghast will certainly bring with her. "Cassie, dear," she says softly. "Must you... _stomp_ so loudly?"

The glare on the Nevarran woman's face would probably be enough to kill a weaker person; Leliana has certainly noticed Jacob looking a little green when the woman turns it on him.

Varric, for his part, just shrugs sheepishly, trying and failing to look innocent. "Why don't you go and help the quartermaster gather up the supplies we need?" Leliana suggests, her tone making it clear that it's far closer to an order than a suggestion. Varric grumbles a few token protests, but he's already started walking by the time Leliana turns back to Cassandra. The former Right Hand of the Divine looks just as tired as the spymaster feels. A vein her cheek pulses as she clenches her jaw, and it seems that every muscle in her is tense with anger.

"Are you still looking for vengeance, Cassandra?" Leliana asks softly.

"I am not!"

Her angry huffs give away her annoyance, but Leliana knows it's not annoyance at her simple question so much as the utter helplessness the other woman feels in the face of such sudden and complete destruction. Both of them feel as though they should've been able to prevent the devastation at the Conclave, if not the entire war leading up to it. It's infuriating, to see what needs to happen and be unable to make it so.

Leliana rests a gentle hand on Cassandra's shoulder, but the other woman shakes her off, and she doesn't push it. They will be working together in much closer proximity now than they ever have, but each of them will have to come to terms with their losses and their ways of moving forward on their own. "How are the fortifications coming?" she asks instead.

Cassandra does better when she is able to distract herself with concrete, physical tasks. Unlike Leliana, she does not often let her mind wander toward the strings of what might be possible. No, she deals with what is, with extreme competence.

"Too slowly," Cassandra murmurs, in answer. "Cullen is concerned. This is no fortress. If an attack should come..."

_An attack from what_? Leliana wonders. Yet she knows there must still be factions of the mage/templar war, cut loose from all control, who may seek to finish what they started while the remnants of the Conclave are still weak. Perhaps an alliance? Yes, that could be possible. She makes a mental note to check in with Jacob as soon as he returns.

For now, it's back to staring hopelessly at the map of Ferelden unrolled on the rickety camp table in front of her. She takes a pen and lets a single drop of ink splash down on a carefully chosen point. They're trying, as best they can, to triangulate the positions of known Fade Rifts using little more than rumor and panic as their guide. She glares down at the map, with only the deep line between her eyebrows giving away how worried she actually is. There seem to be more and more of them each day, and for every one that Jacob manages to close – and at what cost? - two or three more rip open.

"Take a break," Cullen whispers. Leliana jumps, then curses herself for not paying more attention. What if it was an assassin, sneaking up on her, instead of an ally? An assassin, in the Chantry? She sighs heavily. Perhaps she does need a break. "Get some food," the former templar orders. "Clear your head."

Leliana nods, accepting the command with as much grace as she can muster.

She returns to her tent, rummaging around in her pack for some dried fruit in concession to Cullen's demand that she eat something. She hardly tastes it, though. The indirect light of afternoon filtering through the thick canvas somehow adds to the heat, making even a mid-autumn day feel heavy and uncomfortable. She ought to rest, but though her cot is waiting, just to her left, it is strewn with paperwork, packages, and bundles of supplies and "gifts" that she hasn't gotten around to sorting through yet. She falls to her knees instead, in front of a flickering candle, praying for guidance and hearing nothing in return. The silence pulls at things inside of her that she wishes would stay buried.

"Leliana?" She recognizes Jacob's soft voice immediately. She can almost hear the nervous flutter of his heartbeat as he paces nervously just outside the thresshold of her tent.

She clears her throat softly and nods, inviting him in. He looks around, with wide eyes and a look on his face like a boy caught doing something wrong. Leliana sighs. "I'm sorry," she tells him gently, and honestly. "You caught me at a moment of weakness."

He nods, though she knows that he cannot understand the depths of her grief and loss. To him, the destruction of the Conclave is still an intangible tragedy, something he cannot even remember, and certainly not mourn. Perhaps that in itself is a blessing. If he were as paralyzed as she feels, they would already be doomed.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Leliana smiles softly. This urge to help comes so easily to him. It's been so long since she's spoken to anyone so open and unguarded. "Don't concern yourself with me, Jacob. I'm just..."

"Praying," he fills in. "At least that's what it looked like to me."

"You're not wrong."

"Am I right?" he asks lightly, a teasing smile on his face. Leliana laughs softly, despite herself. Even this small bit of levity is enough to cut through her like a knife. It seems like a betrayal to find anything humorous, when everywhere she looks, there is nothing but chaos and danger and death. "I was right," Jacob breathes. Leliana shrugs. "Quit punishing yourself," he demands. "I know it's a Chantry thing, but..."

"But it doesn't help."

"Pretty much," Jacob agrees sheepishly.

Leliana nods. "You don't think much of the Chantry," she observes.

"It's alright for some, I guess. My opinion was kind of made up for me before I had any say in the matter."

Leliana sighs. Somewhere along the way, she got used to using faith as a political tool. It's yet one more thing for her to repent, when the time comes. She kneads at the headache still forming just behind her skull, and looks once more at Jacob. "There is something I meant to speak with you about," she tells him. He nods, looking game enough. It startles her the way he perks up at being told what to do, but he's _so young_. And he's the one that pushes open the flaps of her tent, leading them outside.

They walk out onto the bluffs, staring up at the sky. An angry, unnatural storm swirls overhead. The Breach. Jacob winces noticeably as they get closer to it, and closes his left hand into a tight fist.

"Does it hurt?" Leliana asks. The look he gives her is proof enough of what he thinks of the question, but she can't help it. There is nothing natural about this. She needs to know how it works. She makes a note to check in with Solas, knowing the elven apostate is working on studying the Breach and its impact on the world, and is likely making far more progress than she will ever be able to. Perhaps the mage will be helpful on their voyage to Redcliffe. His presence might lend Jacob's offer of an alliance some credibility with those who oppose and fear the Chantry.

"It doesn't hurt, exactly," Jacob tells her. "Tingles, maybe. Or burns, just a little. It's hard to describe." He shoves his hands deep into his pocket, and turns away from the hole in the sky to meet Leliana's gaze. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Oh." She meets his gaze with a confident smile, hoping it will encourage him to speak his mind and ask direct questions more frequently. She needs him – the _world _needs him – to step up as a leader. Redcliffe will be a good test. "The Breach is magical in nature," she reminds him, stating the obvious. "And the Inquisition will need to establish alliances with everyone we can, if we truly hope to end this chaos long enough to find some way of fixing or reversing these... rips in the Fade."

"And?" Jacob asks, raising an eyebrow.

"And I want you to go to Redcliffe."

She has spoken of this to no one, certainly not Cassandra or Cullen. They would see only danger in the untethered apostates who have brought such destruction to the Chantry that they knew. They claim to understand that the Inquisition has no connection to that old order, but Leliana knows that faith and loyalty run deep in their souls, perhaps too deep to ever be fully severed. There is strength in that, but on this particular mission their old banners will only be a liability. And it is easier to ask forgiveness than permission in some things, after all.

"I'm no diplomat," Jacob insists.

"You're not anything. Not yet." She smiles at him, knowing he won't deny her. "Don't worry, Jacob. I would not send you alone."


	4. Chapter 4

"Take Dalish with you at least," Bull insists cheerfully. "Might do her some good to see that mages aren't as scary as she seems to think."

The blonde-haired elf narrows her eyes at the mercenary captain, but says nothing, and Jacob shrugs. "Couldn't hurt," he says simply.

Bull grins. "Good, then."

"You sure it's a good idea for you to come along?" Krem asks carefully. "You might scare them off."

"And a Tevinter won't do that?"

"I never said I was going."

"Neither of you are going," Leliana insists. "I want you where I can see you. No offense intended, of course."

Bull grins, and Krem just shakes his head, afraid of where this is going already.

"I thought he was in charge," the Qunari growls, nodding toward the Inquisitor.

"Information is my area of expertise," Leliana counters. "Tell me about the Ben-Hassrath."

Bull raises an eyebrow, settling in for a long afternoon as Krem mutters something about redheads.

* * *

Krem smirks knowingly as Bull stomps his way out of the chantry; the Qunari swears his lieutenant may actually be laughing. "Watch it," Bull warns, and Krem wisely says nothing. Bull scans the activity in the camp, grunting after a moment and headed toward the bottom of the hill, where Cullen is directing a group of soldiers – most of them raw recruits.

"They can't do much in the way of battle, not yet," the former templar announces. "But we certainly need help in other areas."

Bull nods his agreement. There is plenty at Haven to keep him and the rest of the Chargers occupied. He has noticed the same thing that Cullen has, of course: this simple mountain village is no fortress, and will not stand against any sustained assault. As a base of operations it is barely servicable, too remote to allow easy access for supplies, lacking any reserves of rations or even enough roofs to house the refugees steadily streaming in to answer the Inquisitor's call for aid.

"These people are more a liability than a help!" the Qunari snaps, as he continues watching the refugees struggle. It is not the first time he has voiced such a concern, and his words once again go unanswered. It's infurating, even confusing. Under the Qun, there would never be this confusion as to whether a place was a war camp or a shelter suitable for non-combatants. Trying to be both, strained for time and resources, is a deadly gamble, and one they should not be willing to make.

Bull wonders yet again what he thought he was doing bringing his Chargers into this shitstorm – his men follow him willingly into danger, but _politics _is a whole different game. He may be trained to survive in that dangerous environment, but most of his people aren't. He scowls and finishes building another too-fragile barricade, then retreats into his tent, where he can scrawl a note without arousing suspicion. The Ben-Hassrath have instructed him to observe, trusting him to keep his personal opinions to a minimum. He tries to hold back his frustration, but the truth is, he is itching for a fight. The few undisciplined bandits roving the foothills offer little challenge, and he's no hunter, able to turn his weapons on deer and rabbits to provide food for the camp.

Krem smiles thinly at his boss, as he sits in front of a flickering campfire neatly skinning a pile of those rabbits and squirrels. The wind seems to blow a little colder each night. Bull stares out into the surrounding mountains, glances at Krem, and thinks about his orders. His superiors in the Qun allow him consirable leeway, an autonomy that most outsiders wouldn't believe could exist in such a regimented and regulated society. Yet they understand that the only way for a Ben-Hassrath to fulfill a mission such as his would be to have the authority to make decisions that reflect the changing conditions on the ground. Some things are not up for discussion, though. They want him to get close to the Inquisitor, that means staying in his camp, no matter how bored he is. He wonders, not for the first time, if he should've argued harder to be included in the group Jacob brought with him to speak to the mages. Dalish did join the boy, but she has not sent any word back to Bull. Not that he expects her to. He isn't worried. From her, any written word is always bad news, the kind of thing that cannot wait until she is able to speak to him – and defend herself – face to face. Perhaps she will be able to fill him in on some useful information about their new employer. Just as likely, she'll have focused on her own goals. Perhaps she'll make some friends among the mages. They are much more likely to trust someone like them – someone forced to hide what she is, than they are a child being lauded as a reincarnated symbol of the Chantry's oppressive religion, all on his own. There are dozens of ways this thing could play out. Bull tells himself to stop fruitlessly trying to follow the threads of each possibility. It will be what it is, when it is.

It's the arguments, a week later, that tell the Bull that the Inquisitor's mission to Redcliffe has been accomplished – for better or worse. Cullen stares down at the makeshift war table, stiff and silent. The Qunari spy can practically see the hairs on the back of the man's neck standing up. He's bristling. Bull considers placing a bet with Varric on how long the former templar can hold out before snapping.

Cassandra, on the other hand, makes absolutely no effort whatsoever to contain her anger. She slams a fist down on the table, and rages and spits with mindless fury, directed at no one and nothing in particular.

Bull raises an eyebrow. The Seeker is not to far gone to ignore the attention. She whirls around, eyes flashing as they lock onto the Quanri. "What?" she snaps.

Bull shrugs. "Nothing," he says honestly. "I'm just observing."

"This is no business of yours."

"I asked him here," Cullen says. His voice is clipped. He's nervous. Bull figures it's just a matter of time before he figures out why.

"Why?" Cassandra grits out.

"Because he's a good soldier. And that's what we need."

Bull allows himself a smile, then pretends to study the map. "You need someone who's not afraid of magic," he says simply. He doesn't look directly at either member of the Inquisitor's official war council, but he doesn't have to. Neither of them reply. They don't have to either. "You've invited her here, I take it?"

"Not just her," Cullen sighs. "All of them."

'Them,' of course being the fragile remainder of the mage rebellion. An unstable and unpredictable force if ever there was one. Bull simply grunts. The Breach is magical, he reminds himself. And even if it was magic that caused it, it will take magic to repair it, surely. He lets his single eye rove over to the Inquisitor, who is huddled in the corner as though he were desperately wishing to be invisible. Bull grins at him, hoping to reassure the kid. "You did good."

"We need their help," Jacob says softly.

"So tell them," Bull insists, nodding toward Cullen and Cassandra. "They'll listen to you."

Jacob narrows his eyes, uncertain if that's true. But he has to try, doesn't he?

He clears his throat hesistantly and takes a few faltering steps toward the war table. "We need their help!" he demands, a little too loudly. But the Seeker and the Templar stop their squabbling and look up at the boy. It's a start.

"With all due respect..." Cassandra begins, after a moment. She's relatively subdued, but Bull knows Jake doesn't need much of a challenge to doubt himself.

"Can it!" the Qunari snaps. "He's the Boss."

Eventually, the Seeker nods. "What's your plan, then?"

Jacob says nothing for a long few moments. He thinks instead. Cautious. Logical. Bull smiles. "I'll talk to Hawke," the Inquisitor finally decides. "It seems unlikely that anyone has seriously heard the mages' demands."

"I'll go with you," Cullen volunteers immediately.

Jake shakes his head, sending his long brown hair flopping into his eyes. "No templars."

"I'm not a templar."

Jacob almost protests, but Bull rests a large hand on the boy's shoulder. "He'll be an asset," he murmurs, not so quietly that Cullen can't hear him, but the commander of the Inquisition's fighting forces does nothing to add to or ammend the comment.

"Fine," Jake sighs. "Let's go then."

Bull tags along after the two human men, neither inviting himself nor giving them time to turn him away. Neither of them does so; Jacob in fact seems resigned to the Qunari's presence. "Leliana says you're a spy," he says, and the curiosity prickling from him is impossible to disguise.

"Takes one to know one," Bull replies, which is not exactly an answer. But Jacob seems to accept it as the confirmation that it is.

Cullen takes the lead, moving with a determined purpose that might easily be mistaken for eagerness. Bull isn't surprised that the mages are camped in a low valley as far away from the chantry as they can while still being within range of its defenders. He is disappointed to see that they seem to be as battered and worn down as any of the other refugees. It's been a long war. Cullen glances sideways at Bull, then nods toward the shape of a lone woman.

"That's her," Jacob confirms. "Hawke."

All Bull can see at first is a tangled mess of dark hair, and a flash of sun-darkened skin every now and then. The woman is a riot and nervous energy, pacing and darting back and forth across a narrow strip of grass between the pitched tents. Bull lets Cullen and Jacob go ahead, and he settles himself, leaning against a thick tree, shaded by a canopy that is suprisingly full for this late in the autumn. Every now and then, a breeze rustles through, stirring around him. The mage appears not to notice any sign of the changing weather. She doesn't make eye contact with Cullen, and though Bull is too far away to hear the words, he can tell that her conversation with Jacob is clipped and short. She doesn't trust either man, clearly. He sighs. Maybe he can do a little better.

He pushes himself away from the tree and takes a few steps toward the woman. He holds his hands out to his sides, non-threatening, and grins. "You?" he grunts. "You're the one who's got the Chantry pissing themselves?!"

She's tiny, it looks like he could pick her up with one hand. But she holds herself with the kind of desperate resignation that Bull has seen far too often in the Ben-Hassrath camps. The look in her eyes is the look he sees on those who are at their lowest point; they have seen too much to even be afraid anymore. She watches him guardedly, but seems to relax when he sees who's with him.

Varric looks at her with a hero-worship that he doesn't even bother trying to hide; but more than that, he looks at her as a friend. "Hawke," he exhales softly. The dwarf's eyes track her every movement, and a grin appears on his face to match the warm, relieved smile that blossoms on hers. "It appears I've made friends with a Qunari," he says simply.

Hawke sighs, turning back toward Cullen and Jacob, who watch her uncertainly. "They your friends too?" she asks the dwarf.

"I didn't tell 'em where you were. Maker, I didn't _know_ where you were. I just had to hope you weren't dead!"

"I'm not dead." Not physically, anyway.

"Obviously," Bull rumbles.

The last surviving leader of the mage rebellion shoots him a poisonous glare.

"Are you truly desperate enough to believe that I can fix this?" She does not raise her voice any louder than a soft hum, and she locks eyes with the young Inquisitor to the exception of everyone else. She doesn't bother hiding her hostility.

"Calm down, Hawke," Varric pleads. "You're on the same side. The Chantry doesn't like him any more than they like you." The dwarf lays a reassuring hand on Hawke's forearm.

"I doubt that."

"They think I did this!" Jacob interjects desperately. He holds up his hand, showing her the green scar that matches the hole in the sky. Hawke shrinks away from his touch and stares into the cloudless sky, where familiar blue has been replaced by a bright streak that pulsates slightly at the pace of a human heartbeat.

"Did you?" she asks the boy. His eyes widen briefly, then he shakes his head.

"Of course I didn't!" he spits.

Hawke shrugs.

"He's a good man," Varric whispers, but even he seems unwilling to put much conviction behind the words. This is no longer a world for good men. If it ever was.


	5. Chapter 5

Leliana curls up the letter into a crumpled ball and scowls down at it. The news doesn't surprise her, but that hardly makes it welcome.

Josephine sits a few feet away, perched on the edge of a rickety chair, straight-backed and primed for an argument, watching Leliana pace across the small room. The diplomat raises an eyebrow and waits for her old friend's inevitable tirade.

"The Chantry has declared the Inquisition and everyone who allies with it to be heretics!" Leliana spits.

Josie leans back in her chair, mulling things over for a moment while she waits for Leliana's anger to subside. "Does that matter?" she asks softly.

She has a way of cutting right to the heart of the question. And she'd already read the notice, and had probably been aware of its contents long before that were ever written down.

"It feels like a failure," Leliana admits.

Josephine stands up, fumbling through the drawers of the desk she'd commandeered and retrieving a handful of the candies she knows Leliana likes. She tucks them into the spymaster's hand before she can protest. "You're just getting their attention," she reminds the former bard. "That's the Game."

"You truly believe there is still some hope for reconciliation?" Leliana asks. She is not quite sure why she's asking, yet she has absolute faith in Josephine's response. The woman makes a true art of scheming and manipulating information, but she is honest, almost to a fault. She wouldn't say something if she didn't believe it to be true. And she is smiling as she nods, before Leliana has even finished her question.

"Perhaps not without concessions," she explains, and Leliana knows that it will never be as simple as Josephine manages to make it sound. But Josephine is stubborn, not easily defeated. Leliana tries to think of an example of a time – any time – when her friend had given up a fight or taken a quicker but lower path, and she can't. Where Leliana sees failure, or worrisome uncertainty, Josephine only sees opportunity. The long-term success of the Inquisition may well depend on moments like this, where the young ambassador can truly shine. "There are certainly still those among the Chantry's representatives who would listen to the words of the former Hands of the Divine. Especially if you can prove beyond doubt that this Inquisition was created with Justinia's blessing."

"It would not hurt to speak with them," Leliana agrees. It's easy to agree with Josephine's infectious confidence, and Leliana is only a little surprised to find herself smiling as the diplomat does.

"I will send word," Josephine confirms, with a shuffling of papers.

It's not exactly a dismissal, but Leliana takes it as one. There are others who will be far harder to convince, and she's on her way to talk to all of them.

They're waiting for her in a room just on the other side of the door. It's a miracle she gets to say anything at all before they start their screaming.

"This is not a good idea!" Cassandra announces, exactly as Leliana had anticipated. Her jaw is set stubbornly, and Leliana wouldn't be at all shocked to find her companion grinding her teeth. Leliana has barely even finished announcing her attention to accept the Chantry's invitation to parley, and already the Inquisition's top-level advisors are protesting.

They stand quietly around their map, spread out on a table, with notes and messages scrawled on countless scraps of parchment littering its surface.

"You and I will be safe enough," Leliana points. "They would not openly attack Justinia's Hands." She glances toward Cullen, looking for support, but the former templar only shrugs. He's at least educated enough to know that this isn't the first coup for power in the church's history. And it's his job to be prepared for the worst possible threat.

Leliana knows the man has turned his back on the Chantry, and she can hardly blame him. She knows what they do to keep their templars under control. Well... what they _did_. There will be no repairing that rift. They can only move forward.

Maybe this meeting can help Cullen too. She says so, quietly, offering the suggestion that he might be able to speak to those in a position of power in the Chantry.

He shakes his head, barely able to spit out a reply. "We can't go in there with a list of demands," he insists. "We have no bargaining power."

Cassandra stares at Cullen, her mouth hanging slightly open. Leliana almost smiles. No doubt the woman was expecting the soldier to be willing to join her in running into the possible trap with swords drawn, but not every problem can be solved with a violent confrontation. Despite Cullen's talent for battle strategy, he shies away from the fight more than most people tend to expect. Apparently, he even surprises Cass. It isn't because he's a coward, but he's seen it go wrong too many times.

Leliana nods. "Cullen's right," she agrees. "We cannot hope to gain any official support from the Chantry. Our power will come from alliances with those within it sympathetic to our cause. If we can convince enough of them to declare support for our activities, perhaps it will be enough to sway public opinion."

"The common people don't worship politicians," Cullen says softly. "They believe in the faith. I won't manipulate that."

Leliana stills the arguments that whirl inside her head. They might have to. The Chantry has manipulated the faith of the common people for generations, and the Inquisition only exists now because someone has to deal with the consequences of that misplaced trust. But she nods, respecting Cullen's position. She's known for years that she's willing to do things that most of the faithful – the good ones at least – won't let themselves do.

"Perhaps," she muses, "We can let our actions speak for us."

Trevelyan smiles. He's been standing quietly on the other side of the table for most of the meeting. His fierce but silent determination might be exactly what they need. "They'll listen to you," she tells him. They may not listen for long, but curiosity at least will get him past the guarded gate.

"I've never been to Val Royeaux," Jacob announces. He takes a deep breath, trying to steel himself for the inevitable fight.

"There are good things about the city," Cullen insists, grinning at the boy. "Not many, but a few. She'll help you find them."

* * *

The sun sets earlier with each passing day, and the taverns grow crowded with people tired from a long day of work, eager for company and alcohol and warmth. Winter hasn't arrived yet, and without the blowing snows and icy nights, no one is desperate enough to waste money trying to heat their own homes when they don't have to. It's easier to stay out for a few extra hours, until they're tired enough to fall into bed regardless of the weather. Eris is grateful for the extra coin in her pocket. It might be her favorite time of year.

The harvest is ending, providing food and jobs – temporary, but critical – to the people of the poorest quarters of Orlais. Migrant workers flood into the city, but this year is different. Many of them have no plans to return home before the first snowfall; many of them no longer have homes to return to. And The Golden City isn't built to contain refugees. They are pushed into the bleeding fault lines at the edges of the alienage. Racial violence has always been a constant in these people's lives, but the threats are growing crueler. The elves care little for human politics, but even the most isolated of them can't escape the consequences of those politics now.

There is no escaping the frenzy of rumor enveloping the city in the aftermath of the Conclave and the death of the Divine. People, human and elven alike, are afraid and angry. The war that should have been ending instead seems only to have reached a more desperate pitch.

Eris listens, for clues and throwaway comments that may help her guess the likely next steps for the collapsing institution. If it is impossible for her and the other mundane poor of the city to imagine a world without the Chantry, it is all the more impossible for the members of the Church to imagine. They fear a loss of power, they desperately reach to grab back as much as they can, seemingly unaware that it has already slipped irreversibly through their fingers.

Most nights, she sits awake in the quiet of the predawn, struggling to put the things she sees and hears into words that can capture their importance. She fiddles with the Chantry amulet around her neck, reassured by its presence even as she ascribes no greater meaning to its symbolism, if she ever did. There are plenty of elves like her, quietly faithful, torn between acquiescing to human demands and needing to belong to something more than fragmented memories of a long-destroyed civilization, impossible to resurrect now even if they wanted to.

Leliana tells her she belongs the Inquisition, but the ties that bind her to that fledgling organization are weak where they exist at all. Eris is loyal to the Chantry lay sister who gave her a sense of purpose and protection when she needed it most. She is looking forward to her friend's return to the city, even though she knows that Leliana only ever brings trouble with her.

That trouble manifests itself almost immediately, when the Chantry's public rejection of the Inquisition ends in a screaming match.

The old women running the church expected an easily-cowed little boy, but instead they met a soldier, one backed by the disillusioned veterans of a never-ending war. Jacob feels pushed aside, he usually does. But it's the first time in his life that he's heard templars screaming at priests, without caring who is watching.

The Inquisition more than holds its own, simply by showing a united front in the face of chaos. By attempting to deny the legitimacy of the only people who were there to see the Divine's death - and to rebuild afterward - the Chantry simply creates a deeper schism. They are tearing themselves apart, while he watches. He wishes it felt more like a victory.

* * *

"I thought you'd be happy," Eris murmers. She leans over the balcony railing, staring at the Chantry spires piercing the skyline. "They'll leave you alone now."

The look Leliana gives her seems to burn deep into her soul. The elf breaks the contact instinctively, afraid of retaliation. Leliana turns away too, as much to make Eris more comfortable as to by herself a few more heartbeats of time to think.

"The loss of the Chantry is devastating," she sighs. "Damaged as the Church has been recently, it may have been Orlais' last hope for peace."

"I thought you were Orlais' last hope for peace."

Leliana glares at her, with enough anger to make Eris flinch. But it burns out quickly. Her frustration with the state of the world isn't Eris' fault. "Maker willing," the spymaster whispers. It's the closest, most honest prayer she's managed to utter in a very long time.

"What's the plan?" Eris asks. She still hesitates when she asks questions, but at least she asks them. "I mean... you did get what you wanted, didn't you?"

"There will be no direct interference from the Chantry. It's a start."

"Is it true that you made an alliance with the mage army?"

Leliana smiles. Her instinct for people is still good. Eris managed to find the truth in a wild rumor buried in a pile of them. "It's not much of an army," she points out. "They're people adrift. They need help. Not unlike someone else I know," she adds , with a sly smile.

"They're dangerous," Eris says flatly. Leliana sighs. It's easy for her to forget that most of the world – for good reason – shares her contact's opinion of magic.

"So are you, little bird." Her fingers trace gently over Eris' hand, a gesture of comfort. "You're hearing voices. Seeing things. Reality is bleeding, and you feel it more than most."

She expects Eris to deny it, or at least not to respond. But the elf must know that she's expecting that, and she capitulates. "How did you know?" she asks softly.

Leliana sighs. "You're not as good at keeping secrets as you think you are." At least not from someone who's sole job is rooting out secrets.

"You're a _spy_." Eris accuses.

"And you're a mage. Whether you want to be or not."

* * *

"We'll keep you safe, you know," Cullen promises. His voice is low and quiet, barely audible even in the hush of the Chantry. Hawke glances at him, but doesn't move otherwise. Her presence looms here in this space. "I didn't think you'd come," he admits.

"I'm out of options." He hears her voice falter – just a bit, and it squeezes at his heart just as it had in Kirkwall. He moves a little closer to her, overwhelmed by the need to just wrap her up in his arms one more time and draw comfort from her. He stops just short, and she flinches briefly, reaching out unconsciously for just a fraction of a second. Maybe she craves the contact too.

She sighs, letting her gaze play over his features. Cullen holds his breath, wishing they could go backward, to a place and time when he knew what to say.

"You look like shit," Hawke finally announces.

Cullen swallows hard. "Lyrium," he says softly. "I'm not..." he trails off, uncertain how much she even knows, how much he should tell her. But she just nods as if she understands, and he leaves it at that.

"Can you feel it?" she whispers. The oppressive gloom of the Chantry seems to disallow any loud voices – even though Hawke has heard arguments that fast devolve into shouting matches whenever the leaders of the fledgling Inquisition meet for counsel. She glances up, pulled toward the source of the screaming in her head, louder here.

"The Breach?" Cullen asks carefully. She nods. He sighs. "Not with any clarity," he admits. "It just feels... wrong."

"I can't fix it," she demands.

Cullen reaches out to squeeze her hand. He takes a deep, calming breath. "I've never heard you say 'I can't' before."

"A lot's changed since Kirkwall."

She perks up at the sound of someone else entering the church, quick enough that Cullen is fully aware that she's looking for a reason to get away from him. Not that he blames her. This whole awkward dance isn't what either of them deserve.

Jacob's footsteps are soft and respectful, yet Hawke still scans the area for a threat, her fingers wrapped tightly around a smooth staff – and that too is new. She is a war leader now, no longer an apostate. Now, her survival rides on proving her power, not hiding it. Maybe the survival of everyone depends on it.

Cullen bites his lip and nods his greeting to the Inquisitor, before heading into their makeshift war room. He seems to be waiting for the Inquisitor to follow, but instead, Jacob loiters in front of the carefully crafted stone reflecting the familiar shape of Andraste. "I'll catch up," he tells the former templar.

Hawke studies Jacob carefully, frowning in confusion when she realizes that he's hanging around to talk to _her_. He's only recently returned from Orlais, and he must have a thousand better things he's supposed to do, but he's already proven his willingness to slow down and act like a normal person even when his advisors and supplicants come demanding his time and attention for a list of urgent matters. It's the kind of pressure Hawke has always hated, and she admires Jacob's ability to acclimate to it so quickly.

"Inquisitor," she says, slowly, testing the title. She tries to recognize the fear ingrained in that word with the quiet boy loitering in front of her now. "That's what they call you?"

Jacob nods, shrugging slightly. He's not quite certain what to do with the honorific either, that much is obvious. "It seems somewhat more accurate than 'Herald of Andraste,'" he says. Hawke smiles. It's easy to talk to him. It might even be easy to work with him.

"They used to call me Champion," she reminds him. The admission is cloaked with exhaustion and bitterness.

Jacob nods. "So I've heard."

He talks to the statue more than to her, the shadow of Andraste looms over the both of them. Yet it's obvious that he desperately wants her to feel comfortable here. "I've been to Kirkwall," he ventures. "A few times. Not since..." he trails off, before he's forced to wade into the troubled waters of the start of the guerilla war Hawke has, until recently, been in charge of waging. "Varric seems to trust you," he says instead, changing the subject. "And Cullen."

"We have history," she replies, as though that's all there is to it.

Jacob nods, because it seems the simplest way of pretending he has any hope at all of understanding a complicated 'history' between an ex-templar and the most infamous living mage in all of Thedas. Hawke seems happy enough to drop the subject. And he'd gain nothing by diving into it, anyway. "They told me you could help," he tells her. Hawke says nothing, doesn't even appear to hear him. "We need magic... to help."

Now, she does look up at him, and the look of guarded caution on her face is certainly understandable, but there's something else there too: perhaps not hope, not yet, but certainly determination, a shadow of whatever strength of spirit had led to her whirlwind acts of heroism in Kirkwall.

Jacob gives her a small smile. "Will you help me?"

Hawke stares at him, unblinking. She stuffs her hands into her pockets and shrugs. "Sure. Why not?"

She has no idea what she can actually _do_, despite Jacob Trevelyan's insistence that someone who wields magic the way that she does will be able to close the Breach, she is not at all certain that's true. She tells him as much, and he stares down at the ripped and warped flesh of his left hand, where ripples of the Raw Fade play. It seems to glow brighter with her near – or is that just her imagination?

She licks dry lips and breaks away, still unsettled by the intensity of the casual contact. "I've felt things like this before," she admits. "It's... killing you."

"I know." For such a young man, he doesn't seem at all burdened by the thought. He shrugs. "Solas holds out hope that if we find a way to seal the Breach, the physical effects within me will slow. Or perhaps stop entirely."

"Solas," Hawke repeats. "That's the one who knows how to fix all this."

"He has... theories. Guesses. But more substantial than anyone else I've heard."

"Why ask me for help, and not him?"

"I'm asking everyone." Trevelyan replies honestly. He sighs, casting Hawke another quick glance before he runs his fingers through his mop of curly hair. "The Inquisition isn't just about the Breach. You've heard Leliana, and Cassandra. They think we're the only hope to restore order and sanity to a world gone mad."

Hawke sighs, glancing toward the meeting room Cullen has disappeared into before turning back to Jacob. "Well, that's good, I guess," she mutters. "At least it means they think there's still going to be a world, after."


	6. Chapter 6

_ Her fingers tangle around the leather cord at her neck. The tarnished Chantry amulet fits comfortably in her hand. It's hot, but the pain keeps her alert. Smoke stings her eyes, even through closed lids, and screams echo in her ears. She tries, once more, to get somewhere, to crawl to safety dragging her useless leg behind her, but every small movement sends searing agony rattling through her body. She coughs, and chokes, blackened ash filling her lungs. Her eyes slip closed once more. _

_ A stinging slap wakes her, and she turns away from the punishment, struggling to voice her protest. She ends up on her knees, coughing until it turns to vomiting and dry-heaving. It's only after she's been doing this for several minutes that she realizes someone has been holding her, gently supporting her weight, occasionally untangling her knotted hair with careful fingers. Eris pushes herself up, taking slow and careful breaths. "Am I dead?" she manages to choke out. _

_ Her half-hearted joke is met not with a returned quip, but with a expression of dark and terrifying seriousness. Eris feels her stomach drop, and her earlier queasiness returns. _

_ "I am so sorry," Leliana whispers. _

_ "What happened?" Eris' mind whirls into action, leaping faster than she can follow toward worst-case scenarios "Rafe? Is he...?!"_

_ "Rafe is fine. Safe." At least as much as the Chantry spymaster can guarantee anyone's safety in these turbulent times. "It's..." she cannot meet Eris' eyes as she reports the news. She does not want to claim any affiliation, no matter how slight, with the elite of Orlais who would do such things as this. "The Empress' forces have burned the slums of Halamshiral. You are not dead, Eris, as I am sure you well know. But many others – too many to count – are."_

Leliana weaves her fingers through the elven girl's hair, waiting for her to shake off the nightmare. "I'm sorry," she murmurs.

Eris wraps her arms around her knees and burrows back into the corner of the small room. The mattress shifts underneath her. She glances up at Leliana. "It's just dreams," she says aloud, as much to remind herself as to calm her friend's worry.

Leliana quickly licks at dry lips. She stares at a point just past Eris, a hovering flicker on the wall where the first light of morning slips into the darkened room. "You think you survive the worst of things, but they still haunt you. I am sorry, for bringing you back here."

Eris glances at her, quickly. The shadows still cling to her. "It's the job," she points out.

Leliana nods again, squeezing Eris' hand. "Thank you, anyway."

Eris shrugs, and nervously pulls her fingers through hair that has already been combed straight. It hangs down past her shoulders, limp and thin. Her peasant's rags hang from her skinny form. In other words, she looks like a thousand other alienage rats turning up for a chance to serve the rich human families who sit behind their protected gates, overlooking the ashes of Halamshiral.

It isn't hard to fall into the old motions, to be subdued and obedient. Leliana chose the right person for this job. Compared to the elite of Tevinter, Eris finds the humans of Orlais easy to predict. They are volatile and easily offended, sometimes cruel. But they're too caught up in their own games to pay attention to the knife-eared servants prowling their halls. If she does what she's told, she can stay invisible.

"I need you to be ready for this." Leliana's words somehow manage to be both demanding and soothing at the same time. The Winter Palace is a dangerous place to put a spy. So dangerous that she'd almost rather Eris stay out here, gleaning whatever scraps of information she can from the burned-out ruins of the city. It's difficult, even still, for Leliana to feel comfortable walking away from her people, leaving her contacts alone to do the best she can while she has no way of swooping in to rescue them if things go wrong. She trusts Eris because she has to, but there are still the voices, impossible to silence, that insist she may be abandoning one of the few people in the world she can truly call a friend.

"I can do it," Eris growls. As if to prove it, she picks herself up and begins tucking the few possessions she'll need with her into a satchel.

"I know you can."

Eris holds her breath as Leliana tracks her movement. The spymaster's fingers skip over Eris' arm quickly, one last quick moment of contact before she has to go. "It's getting worse, isn't it?" she asks softly.

"It's just dreams," Eris repeats.

But Leliana shakes her head. "It isn't," she demands. Leliana isn't a mage, but she isn't blind either. And she's afraid for her friend.

"I can do this," Eris repeats. She ignores her friend's obvious attempts to dig into her problems, choosing instead to focus on the mission at hand. "I've done everything you've ever asked."

"I know," Leliana murmurs. She begins to walk away, but turns back, after a few long seconds. With one hand wrapped around the door jamb, she catches Eris' eye one more time. "You can ask for things too, you know."

Eris doesn't say anything, but she nods. The movement is so slight that Leliana isn't entirely sure she's not imagining it. She smiles anyway. Knowing that Eris has heard her, will remember the words when she needs to, makes it easier for Leliana to leave her friend behind.

She takes her time returning to Ferelden. There is a stop she needs to make along the way.

* * *

The cold winds blow through Haven, and their chill settles even into the heart of the Chantry. In the weeks since she's last been here, fall has slid irrevocably into winter. The Inquisition's camp is full to bursting with refugees, and she can only pray they'll have enough food to sustain them all.

Leliana shrugs deeper into her cloak and leans over the map, where the candles at the edges of the table cast a flickering firelight, too small to be a real source of warmth. "Our sources in Val Royeaux are... concerned," she says. Her lips are drawn in a thin line.

"That's gotta be an understatement," Jacob murmurs. He reaches up to massage the headache forming between his eyebrows.

"The war between the Empress and her cousin Gaspard threatens the entire Empire," Cullen insists. His voice is soft, but harsh, as if the needless violence is a personal affront.

They all understand how he feels. Across the table, Josephine holds her breath, tracing her fingers over the soft edges of a map that has been shuffled and folded too many times to count. "If Orlais falls..." she murmurs. She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to.

"We won't let it," Leliana announces. She sounds determined, but Jacob just glares at her.

He looks exhausted, and Josephine reaches out to take his hand. He shakes her off, his gaze, and attention, still locked on Leliana. The spymaster begins a discussion with Cullen, about plans and troop movements, as he isn't even there. Their voices seem to grow louder and more argumentative with each passing second.

Jacob kicks the table, and presses his hand to his head as he takes a deep breath. "We cannot be everything to everyone!" he shouts.

His voice cuts above the chatter, and the other members of the war council snap into sudden silence. All eyes turn toward him. He feels his face flush red, intensifying the embarrasment he already feels at his outburst, but he manages not to shuffle his feet or stare at the floor like a naughty child. He holds his shoulders straight and meets each of his advisor's eyes in turn. It's something.

"There's something else you should know," Leliana says, after a few agonizing seconds of slowly creeping time. She keeps her voice quiet, but she is in no way intimidated by him. That much is obvious. She shoves a few pages of scrawled notes toward Jacob.

"What are these?" His brow furrows in concentration as he scans the paper. He isn't capable of comprehending most of it – he doesn't have a frame of reference for the threat, but Leliana knows enough to be frightened.

"There are Tevinter agents moving into the Empire."

"They'll take advantage of the chaos created by the civil war," Cullen realizes. This, on top of the Chantry crumbling... "They'll run over us."

"It's a common threat," Josephine muses. "Perhaps enough of one to unite some of our more hesitant allies."

It's Jacob who realizes that they're not seeing the worst of what's possible. They're missing the true danger, blinded by their tangled webs of politics. He glances at the glowing green gash cutting across the palm of his left hand. "They're not here for the throne. They're not here for political influence, they can't hold onto the fraying empire they already have. Tevinter... they're mages. They're here for magic."

"The Breach," Cullen says simply.

Jacob nods. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"The Breach isn't a weapon!" Cassandra insists.

"But it could be." Cullen barely chokes out the words. He has seen too many things he should never have seen. Things no one should see. Magic is a terrifying weapon. "What would they gain?" he murmurs, more to himself than to any of the Inquisition's other advisors still surrounding him. In his heart, he knows the answer. Sometimes destruction is the only goal.

* * *

The sound of a child's giggling shocks Eris to her core. She flushes with guilt, then ducks back to her duties. She keeps her head down, does what she's told, and fits in well enough among the interchangeable army of servants that keep the Winter Palace of the Empress of Orlais running smoothly. She is invisible. Almost.

She hears the running footsteps, and sees a streak of motion out of the corner of her eye. She ignores the children, pushing down the hurt and guilt that bubbles up below the surface. A shadow flits across her vision. It does not go away, and she can sense the children, watching her. She scowls, ready to lash out with angry words, if they are careless enough to intrude.

Her indignation is quickly replaced by confusion. The boy who approaches her is older than either of the two elven children she had seen. He is human, scrawny and pale, with matted hair, stiff and brittle as wheat, obscuring his features. His clothes are rough and tattered, even more than her own. He does not belong here.

"Go away," she hisses. Getting rid of him is the simplest solution. The Empress occasionally opens her court to petitioners, but they don't have free run of the gardens.

"I want to help," the boy announces. He seems unconcerned by the darkness of her mood.

Eris looks up, ready to tell him off. Her stomach tightens into a painful knot. She narrows her eyes, searching for some part of him to latch onto, but his outline seems fuzzy, constantly shifting. The boy swings his legs against the side of the low wall separating her small patch of plants from a nearby fountain. It bubbles and sprays out cascades of warm water, even as winter sweeps over the land.

The boy's grin is lopsided, curious and questioning.

"Who are you?" Eris asks carefully. Beneath her ribs, her heart pounds – too loud, too fast. She squints at him through barely opened eyes, trying to make sense of him.

"I'm Cole," he says simply. "I want to help."

"I don't need help."

He shakes his head, causing his oversized farmer's hat to flop and wave. "You do," he insists. "You're scared of yourself. You don't know what you are." He looks up, and his piercing blue eyes hold her still. "It's okay," he says, still grinning. "I can show you. I can help."

Eris holds herself completely still, barely breathing. She hacks at the frozen ground beneath her, salvaging the last of the earth's green and growing things.

When she looks again, the boy is no longer there.

* * *

"You alright?" Unlike the mysterious child in the gardens, this question is careful, not intrusive or threatening.

Eris nods, accepting the words and offering a response because it is expected. It's an easy thing to do. It almost surprises her, how easy it is.

The other servant – Alina, her name is Alina - studies her, looking not for some weak point she can exploit, but for some sign that this new addition to the palace's staff is not untouchable.

Eris sighs. "I'm alright," she murmurs. She lets out a long slow breath, releasing some of the tension from her muscles, dropping her guard just a bit. Fitting in is important, and it won't happen if she is too prickly to allow an alliance when it's offered.

"You get used to it," Alina tells her, softly.

Eris doesn't ask what she means. She doesn't have to. A female elven servant, obviously shaken by a secretive encounter. A part of her wishes the men haunting her were as easy to explain. A physical threat she could tolerate. She would know, at least, how to predict an Orlesian nobleman's advances, and how to respond. These ghosts that pull themselves into the world are something altogether different.

She keeps busy, distracting herself from the anxiety that these unanswered questions breed. The Court is a frenzy of activity, everyone agonizing over each tiny detail of preparation for the ball the Empress has just ordered. Eris knows the drinks and dancing will only serve as cover for more serious machinations, but those are the secrets that are never spoken. Better to focus on dusting the chandeliers, remaking the same pastries for the sixth time because they are not quite perfect, and searching for a vintage of wine that may or may not actually exist.

When the preparations are finished, when there is nothing left to do, she holds her breath for a quiet moment, watching as the parade of nobles sweeps into the Winter Palace. Wisps of light, created by magic, are scattered across the ceiling like stars. Soft music fills the air, played by the finest court musicians. It's dazzling. She turns away from the crowd, retreating into the servant's quarters. Those beautiful things are part of a world that she does not, and can never, belong to.

* * *

The music of a carefully orchestrated waltz bleeds out from the ballroom. Bull, pacing the corridors of the rest of the palace, the trophy rooms and balconies left open to guests as a means of showing off, ignores the unfamiliar instruments. He runs his hand gently over a marble statue here and there, and turns a few trinkets over in his palm, trying to discern their value. He chafes in the finery he's been squeezed into. It's been sized to fit him, custom-tailored by some associate of Josephine's, but that doesn't make it any more comfortable. Curlicues of lace – _lace –_ frame his collar.

He spits into a potted plant, and scowls at everyone who comes within arm's reach of him. That isn't many; most of the Orlesians wisely give him a wide berth. The elven servants floating through the room cast him nervous glances and pass by with their trays of carefully selected refreshments, without stopping to offer him anything. Just as well he brought his own drink. He doesn't hide the flask strapped to his hip. It gives him something to do, to pass the time. He knows he's only here in case diplomacy fails – an entirely likely scenario.

His head hurts just trying to keep up with all the back-stabbing and rumors. There are days when he misses the Qun, where things are straightforward and nobody fights their purpose. He takes another long draught from his flask, and keeps his eyes open.

Another servant, with sun-touched skin and dark hair that almost hides her pointed ears, glides past him. She hesitates, just for a moment, before continuing on her way as though nothing had happened. A lazy grin appears on Bull's face, as he recognizes his barmaid. They are a long way from the slums of Val Royeaux, but he'd know her anywhere.


	7. Chapter 7

Thick fingers close around her wrist, but Eris doesn't fight them. Instead, she relaxes into the hold. A grin spreads onto her face, and she doesn't bother to conceal it.

"What are you doing here, little bird?" Bull growls softly. His deep, rumbling voice sends a pleasant shiver through her body. He releases her before she has to ask, but there's no avoiding the fact that he's placed his large bulk between her and the rest of the room. Smart man. No one will sneak up on them without his knowing. "They won't notice you're gone," he says aloud, before she can protest. "Not for a while anyway. Drink?" He holds out the flask, still grinning.

She shakes her head, aware of the importance of keeping up appearances. She takes in his outfit with a carefully appraising look, and he knows her well enough to recognize the amusement she's trying not to make obvious.

"The Inquisition?" she asks softly. "You're working for them now?"

"So are you."

Eris shakes her head. "I'm working for Leliana. Same as always."

"Believe that if you want to," Bull snorts. "It's cute the way you draw yourself these lines."

"Leliana runs the Inquisition," Eris guesses, as she crosses her arms over her chest and stares him down. "That's what you mean."

"Leliana has nothing to do with your choices. _That's _what I mean."

"I'm not -"

"I know. Not one to risk your neck on lost causes. So you've said." He moves aside, nodding toward the narrow hall that will steer her through the Winter Palace's servants' quarters. "Go on. Before you're missed."

Eris nods, but she doesn't move. Bull notices her hesitation – of course he does – and he narrows a critical eye. He rests one of his huge hands on her shoulder, with surprising gentleness. "I miss you too," he says slyly. He runs his thumb in a slow circle over her shoulderblade.

"I never said..." she begins to protest, but he cuts her off with just a look. She never needs to _say_, not with him, and not with Leliana either.

"I'll find you," he promises, with one last strong touch. Eris nods, and slips carefully away. She can't help but glance back at him, only for a moment, but he's already carefully pretending not to see her. It makes it easier for her to keep her head down and stay invisible.

With one hand, she flicks her thumb over the scrap of parchment carefully concealed in her pocket. She already knows what the message says. She has yet to decide what to do with that information.

She can hear drunken shouting coming from the garden, and she quickens her pace before one of the Empress' guests stumbles inside looking for something more to drink, or a quiet corner to take a date. The servant's quarters at least should offer her a place to think for a minute or two. She pushes open a surprisingly heavy door and walks softly into the quiet. The servants' quarters are always dim, but now, even the flickering oil lamps have gone dark. Their oily smoke still clings heavily in the air, mixing with another too-familiar scent: the iron tang of blood. Eris' stomach twists. Her hands shake slightly when she catches sight of the pools of red, slick across the floor.

The discarded bodies of now-dead elves still lay where they'd fallen. One of the girls has blonde hair, some of it soaking up the still wet blood. Alina. They weren't friends, but the sight of the woman's throat torn open still feels like a violent betrayal. Her sightless eyes stare up at Eris, cold and accusing.

Eris fights the urge to be sick, and instead draws herself up to her full height and peers into the shadows. Voices scream behind her skull. There is a crushing pressure, a physical sensation of darkness, clawing and suffocating. It is a tainted magic she hasn't felt since Tevinter.

She turns away from this corrupted graveyard, and she runs.

She pays no heed to the nobles she passes, done up in finery, masks and jewels. They gasp in shock, and she hears nervous laughter, rapidly punctuated by harsh whispers. She ignores it all.

She pounds her fists against the thick doors of the ballroom, ducking under the arm of the guard that attempts to grab her. "They're here," she babbles senselessly. "Please! You have to listen to me!"

Someone grabs her, slapping her hard across the face. Blood trickles from her lip, and her head spins. She tilts her head back, trying to shake the ringing out of her ears, trying to focus, at least enough to see the man's face. She can't get a read on him, though. His face is covered with a form-fitting helmet that hides any expression. "Someone's going to try to kill the Empress," she pleads. "Please..."

She _pushes _on the guard's emotions, just a little bit, begging him to listen. His eyes widen briefly, and his hold on her loosens. The pause is just long enough to bring The Iron Bull running forward. He takes one look at Eris on the floor, not bothering to hide her distress, and the Orlesian guard holding her. "What's going on?" he growls, and the floor itself seems to shudder at the sound his voice. The guard's face turns white, and he takes a step back. Eris scrambles to her feet.

Bull nods at her, checking her over with a quick sweep of his single eye. "I'm not hurt," she mutters. "But..."

The Qunari doesn't wait for her to finish whatever she's about to say. He's already storming into the ballroom, where the Empress sits in attendance atop a gilded throne. She sits too still, held in place by magic, and though her eyes are wide with fear, her face is frozen in an expression of something altogether different: anger, bordering on genuine rage. Her skin is flushed red beneath the pearls and diamonds adorning her cream-colored gown.

The room is completely silent and still, a pantomime of an Orlesian ball acted out by living statues. Some of the people are standing on tiptoe, in the middle of a whirling dance. Others stand with lips locked in an illicit kiss. Eris' attention snaps to the single, subtle movement in the room: she can feel the stirrings of magic being woven, dangerous and dark. The man deftly weaving the invisible strings is wearing dark velvets, and a lazy smile. He is surrounded by an honor guard of weaker mages from whom he draws most of his power.

"Fucking Vints," the Bull snarls, his lip curling. He hefts his giant battleaxe and stalks forward, closing the huge amount of distance between himself and the Tevinter entourage almost completely before they are even aware of his presence. He crushes in the skull of one of the fragile mages with one swing. After that, the rest of them react.

"Bull!" Eris yells. She wants to warn him, but how can she? Even she doesn't understand what's happening, how everyone in the room except for her and Bull and a handful of already-dying Tevinters stands motionless, not even breathing. As though time itself is frozen.

"You meddle in things you do not understand," the leader of the magisters taunts. He speaks Tevene, but that is not an obstacle to Eris. And Bull doesn't have to understand what the man is saying to know that he is an enemy.

"You're using blood magic," Eris accuses. Her voice is surprisingly calm. Though this is unlike any form of magic she has ever encountered, she understands that much.

Coils of invisible rope snake around her wrist, tickling her skin. She slaps them away, without thinking. The magister smiles. "I'm using _time _magic," he corrects. He stares at her, with narrowed eyes, the way a cat does while playing with a mouse.

Eris looks back at Bull, but she can't help him. It has never been more obvious that the Tevinter infiltrators are completely in control of the situation. The magister reaches out with a casual flick of his wrist and traps the Qunari warrior behind an invisible yet unbreakable wall of force. Bull growls helplessly behind the barrier.

"What are you doing?" Eris asks. She can feel the pressure of the spells he casts, hears the whispers of the twisted Fade, but she cannot make sense of it, not without help.

"You talk too much," is the man's annoyed response. He silences her with a spell that is too strong and comes too fast for her to fight.

She struggles to pull in enough air through shallow breaths, and even her incoherent murmurs of protest soon fade away. She stills, frozen by expectations that weigh on her more heavily than any magic. Her gaze flickers toward the Orlesian empress – still alive, for now. She doesn't look at the magister. She sees bloody shadows on the floor and she can't tell if they're real.

There is a loud banging, the slamming of a door. Eris doesn't even flinch. It doesn't seem to matter. "We are _not _helpless!" someone yells. The sounds seem to come through a thick haze, taking too long to reach her ears. It's an unfamiliar voice, even if it wasn't warped and distorted by the corrupted magic wrapping itself around her, squeezing tight.

She turns her head enough to see a boy in dress armor and the Inquisition's heraldly conspicuiously decorating the majority of the breastplate. He charges into the frozen precipice of a fight not yet occuring. He breathes heavily, as though he's been running, but he does not look afraid. He holds out his left hand, palm out towards the magister, and a flash of blinding green light erupts from the boy's skin.

The magister sputters out an incoherent curse, but as the warped touch of the Fade rips into him, everyone else around him spins into sudden motion.

"Get her out of here!" Eris hears someone else yell, a man's voice, someone speaking the common tongue of Ferelden rather than the Orlesian she'd expect. Regardless, the honor guard around the Empress responds to the order; it is, after all, the only sensible option. Celene does not protest, she seems shaken. Eris reaches for the dagger hidden beneath her servant's clothing, and defends herself with calm confidence against both the Tevinters and the Orlesians who may pose a threat.

Most of the nobles seem utterly helpless, confused by circumstances beyond any understanding. There is screaming. Most of them run.

Bull puts himself between Eris and the bulk of the fight. Between him, the Inquisition's warriors, and the fighting men and women of Orlais scattered through the ballroom, a handful of weakened mages is simple enough to mop up, now that the fight has turned to one that favors physical violence and bloody weapons.

The warped green light of the Fade still hovers in the air above them. It is no longer blinding, but Eris avoids looking at it all the same. Her heartbeat still hammers in her chest.

"Who are they?" Bull asks Eris. His eyes are on the bodies of the dead magisters.

She shrugs. How is she supposed to know? She understands that the eyes of more than just the Qunari spy are on her.

The young man with the glowing hand approaches both of them, and Bull grunts something that may resemble a greeting. "Inquisitor Trevelyan," he announces to Eris.

He holds out a hand to shake hers, and it takes Eris a few long seconds to respond, but does as he bids. "You were trying to warn us," Jacob points out. His hand, clasped around hers, is warm and solid.

She nods. Her throat is dry and her head is spinning, but she does not fear him. "I saw..." a dark shadow crosses over her face as the image of the dead elves in the servant's quarter, throats slit and blood spilled, once more flashes in front of her. She shakes her head slightly, trying to clear her mind. The Inquisitor's hand slips out of hers, and he frowns in confusion. "They're from Tevinter," Eris tells him. She keeps her voice even. She wonders how much he knows. Is he aware that he should fear them? "Attacking in the open like this... they must think..."

"That Orlais has no more strength to fight," Jacob fills in.

"Do you think the Empress is safe?" Leliana asks carefully. Eris takes a step forward, ready to chase after the Empress if the spymaster commands it. Leliana looks shaken. Eris studies her carefully, thinking of everything that's gone wrong lately.

"Not safe enough," Jacob demands. He too sounds angry, almost petulant. "Not for long. She must speak with me. If they can infiltrate the Winter Palace itself..."

"It was no infiltration," Bull reminds the assembled team. "They walked through the front door. They were invited here."

"They came because of the hole."

There is a sword at the throat of the blond boy before he finishes the sentence, but he seems unbothered by either the weapon or the angry glare of the man who wields it.

"Cole!" Eris exclaims.

"Do you know him?" asks the soldier.

Eris shakes her head, indicating the negative, but she keeps talking. "He warned me," she says. "Out in the garden."

"I want to help," the boy repeats, and Eris frowns at the earnest desperation in his continuous assertion.

"You _did_ help," she mutters. "Who are you?"

"Not who," Bull growls. He attempts to reach out for the boy, and this time, Cole flinches away. "_What_?"

"I am a person," Cole insists. "I can help!"

He hovers around them, feeling drawn toward Eris in particular, and Trevelyan. They'll listen to him. They _have to_.

"He's a demon," Hawke hisses. Until now, she'd been hovering at the edges of the Inquisition's group, but now, she is ready to fight. Raw mana crackles from her skin, strengthened by the Fade ripped open in the room. She glares at Cole suspiciously, her fingers wrapped tightly around the staff she carries as a weapon. "I can _feel _him. He does not belong here."

"A demon wouldn't offer to help," Eris pleads.

"You don't know that!"

"I'm _not _a demon! I'm not! I can help you. Please, let me help you. Let me help." He stiffens suddenly, his eyes flickering back and forth beneath his matted hair. "Pain," he wheezes. "Blood, and fear. She is dying. She saw him but she did not know. 'Why?' she asks him, and it hurts. He is her cousin. She remembers laughing. Running. Even when they fought it was not angry, not really. Why? Why is she cold?"

Before the boy finishes his strange monologue, Cullen has already started running for the Empress' private quarters, where she had been whisked away following the Tevinters' attack.

He is unable to push his way beyond her masked honor guard, but it's already obvious that there is no need to try. "We're too late," he murmurs, as his face drains of color. "Gaspard..."

"He staged a coup!" Cassandra spits. She too runs toward the fight, sword already in hand. Another useless death. Another failure. "Surely that will not be allowed to stand!"

The Inquisition's fighters are left with only the aftermath of a murder that took place on their watch. Eris stands alone just on the outside of the Empress' supposed safe haven. She can hear the arguing voices as clearly as if she were in the room with them.

"The people of Orlais cannot afford any more uncertainty or chaos," Cullen sighs. "Perhaps he will be a strong enough leader." It is a defeat, yes, but they cannot undo it. Now, all they can do is turn it to their advantage.

"What about justice?" Trevelyan asks. His voice is soft but angry.

The diplomat, Josephine, silently steps up to him, squeezing his had in an attempt to comfort him and calm his fears. "The Tevinters may yet try again to destablize the Empire. Let Gaspard lead it, in alliance with the Inquisition."

"You think he'll accept an alliance?"

"He will. Quite eagerly, I imagine."

Cullen nods, accepting her expertise. Honestly, he struggles to see anything positive about the events of the night, but it feels good to have some kind of plan in place. He reaches out for Hawke's hand, and turns to Trevelyan. "You'll have to negotiate it."

"If we can even find him," Cassandra points out angrily.

"We'll find him," Leliana insists.

Bull slips out of the room, sidling up closer to Eris. She lets him shield her. She doesn't want to admit how much it personally hurts, watching all of this fall apart. She's rarely in the middle of all the action, rarely sees how her reports devolve into life-and-death battles. She doesn't like what she sees here.

"The peace talks failed," she murmurs.

The Iron Bull shrugs. "Seems to me like they were never meant to succeed." He studies her, carefully, reaching out to trace her smooth skin under his strong, callused fingers. "I didn't figure you'd be all that disappointed, to be honest."

"I... shouldn't be," Eris agrees.

What does it matter to her, in the long run? Nobles everywhere – in Orlais, Tevinter, Ferelden... they consider themselves untouchable. She's under no illusion that Gaspard will be any kinder to the elves than Celene had been; he may even be worse – a soldier and a warmonger, he's not likely to pay much attention to things like providing food or charity to the poor in his lands. But he owes the Inquisition, and they may be able to put a little bit of pressure on him, when it matters.

For now, he'll at least pledge a significant force of soldiers to accompany the Inquisitor and ally with him against the demonic threat from the torn Veil, as well as the Tevinter armies who would take advantage of a weak and fractured Orlais.

Leliana says the Inquisition's purpose is to restore order and hope to a world gone mad. From what Eris can see, they are operating on little more than hope.

"You're coming back with us, aren't you," Bull asks softly. It takes Eris longer than she should to realize he's _asking_. She nods, wondering at the speed of her acquiescence. Bull grins. He sees nothing to gain in hiding his relief at the opportunity to keep her close, maybe for a very long time. He catches Leliana watching him, and he waves cheerfully at her, as he wraps his other arm more tightly around Eris' waist. "You did good," he tells her. The rest can be sorted out later.


	8. Chapter 8

The sky glows an eerie green, and the demons circle ever nearer, drawn to her hopes and fears. Eris shudders and squeezes her eyes shut, but Bull's strong fingers dig into her shoulder and won't let her fall. "You've got this," he says, softly enough that no one else can hear. She nods, refusing to back down. She forces her eyes open. It's not the first time she's stared down a nightmare. The demons are most clearly visible at the edges of her vision, warped forms of fire and force. They sing, barely audible. No one else takes the time to listen.

The Iron Bull charges ahead, raising his two-handed axe and swinging it wildly over his head, bellowing a Qunlat war cry. The metal cleaves the demon in two, yet it only re-forms, pulling at the emotions of the warriors around it that can make it real. Cole darts through the spaces in between solid ground and the Fade, his knives the only piece of him that calls attention. Eris blows out a long breath, and releases a burst of mana. It hurts, and it seems to draw the demons closer rather than repel them. She screams, and fights, lashing out with with every weapon at her disposal. Claws rip at her, but she barely feels them. The Fade is only real if you make it that way. Magic is in her blood. She's never wanted to admit it before, it has always terrified her. But she needs it now.

She listens to the screams and shouts of her fellow soliders; she can feel the world slipping away. One of the demons grabs her, with cold fingers that squeeze around her chest. She tries to rip herself out of its arms, as the mud slides under her boots. Her fingers wrap tightly around her dagger, and she stabs without looking. The demons are crowded so close that it's impossible not to hit them, and they just keep coming. They tear at old memories, giving themselves form by pulling at the things she doesn't need anymore. Tears leak from Eris' eyes as the mutants from the other side of the Veil pull and scratch at everything that makes her who she is.

A crossbow bolt goes flying past her face, lodging itself into the barely corporeal form flying just above her. The shrieking dies away, and Eris tries to control her breathing. "You killed it," she breathes.

Varric shrugs. "There's no trick to it, really. Once they're through the green screen, they die same as anything else that bleeds."

"They don't bleed," Cole points out sensibly.

Eris blinks, glancing at him, suddenly visible out of the corner of her eye. To say he unsettles her is rapidly understating the situation. But for now, he appears to be on their side. And if the enemy of an enemy is a friend, she will tolerate him.

The Inquisitor steps forward, holding out his left hand and biting his lip so hard it bleeds. Eris stares at him, trying to work out what he's doing. The hole in the sky begins to close, looking no less unnatural than a cloud passing over the sun. After a moment, there's no sign it was ever there at all. Jacob's face looks pale and drawn, and it takes him a minute to find the strength to take a step forward. Bull catches him before he falls on his face, and Eris catches the Qunari's eye for a brief moment as he helps the Inquisitor sit. Jacob follows the warrior's line of vision and meets Eris' eyes. He gives her a tired smile.

"It's called a Fade Rift," he tells her. "They're... I dunno, it feels like they're everywhere."

"The Chantry priests are saying it's the world's end. And... you think they're right." It's not a question – she can see it on his face. "Is that what the Breach was like?"

"I don't remember much," he tells her honestly. "But I think it was – it _is –_ much worse." He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, before staring out into the woods. The forests of Orlais are eerily quiet. He wonders if the recent civil war had pitched its battles here. It must've. He sighs, running his hand through his hair. "We should be at Gaspard's estate by this afternoon. I imagine we'll relish this quiet, then."

"You really think they'll just listen to you?"

"Not at all. That's why I've got you." Eris snorts, getting ready to explain that she's just a _knife ear_, pretty to look at but certainly not someone an Orlesian nobleman would take advice from. But Jacob seems completely confident in her skills. "Leliana tells me I owe you a great deal. Apparently, you're one of the most useful assets I have in Orlais. Single-handedly responsible for most of our successes here."

"Leliana exaggerates."

"All the same, I appreciate everything you've done."

"You're different than I expected," Eris admits.

"Different how?"

"I dunno. I thought you'd be more..."

"Orlesian?" She nods sheepishly, still uncertain how he'll react. But he's still smiling. "I promise, you don't have to be afraid of me."

"Do you believe it?" she asks him softly. "What they're saying about you?"

The weight of his command is all too obvious. A shadow flits across his face, and his shoulders seem to sag as he processes the question. He sighs, deep and heavy. "I don't know," he finally admits. He glances up, noticing the Chantry amulet on its cord around her neck. "You're Andrastian?" he asks, his features wrinkled in confusion.

Eris shrugs. "I'm not sure," she tells him carefully, matching his honesty with her own. Her fingers play with the sharp edges of the Chantry sun as she speaks. "I think if I have to be anything..."

Trevelyan nods. "I don't think I'm a savior. I don't... it's not like Andraste speaks to me or anything. I just got lucky. Or really, _really _unlucky, maybe."

The pale green glow of his hand catches Eris' attention again. Whatever it is, it vibrates through her, setting her teeth on edge. "Is it magic?" she asks, reaching out to see it more closely. The Inquisitor frowns, but he does not jerk his hand away. Eris stops just short of touching it, and she watches his face more than the unnatural wound across his palm. He looks... deep in concentration, trying to work through a difficult problem. It makes him look suddenly older.

"I don't know. I mean... yes, I think it must be. But I'm not. I'm not a mage."

"Oh." She wonders why she sounds so disappointed. After years of growing up in Tevinter, perhaps the absence of magic still unsettles her.

"Is that a problem?"

She shakes her head. "I just thought..." she trails off, trying to organize her thoughts. "It'd be easier, wouldn't it? If you knew what it was."

"You can't know everything," he reminds her.

"It's a little bit her job to try." Josephine's soft voice somehow interupts without appearing to do so – a useful skill for a diplomat. Jacob smiles, reaching out to wrap the Antivan woman's gloved fingers tightly in his own.

Jacob sighs. "You've come to get me for a meeting." Josephine nods. "Fine. Let's get it over with."

Eris watches them go, and she knows they won't be able to keep their hands off each other during their meeting. She wonders if they know how easy they are to read.

* * *

That night, the snow crunches under her new boots. Bright moonlight spills over the clearing. The rest of the camp is sleeping, and the fire set up in the middle of their ring of tents has long since burned out. But Eris can't sleep. She walks up a slight incline, deeper into the trees, where Bull paces back and forth, keeping himself busy as he waits for his watch shift to finish. He doesn't complain, but he also moves more slowly than usual, rubbing his arms and keeping his body hunched against the wind. "You'd be warmer if you put on a shirt," she points out.

"How would you appreciate my pillowy-man bosoms then?" He leans down to kiss her, brushing his lips over hers. Eris lets her eyes close, and breathes him in. He's warmer than she is, even without the shirt. His heart beats a little faster than hers does.

"So you're not cold, is what you're saying."

"Cold never bothered me," he grunts.

She reaches up, tracing her finger across a series of deep new gashes carved into his bare stomach. Bull doesn't flinch. Her touch brings a smile to his face, and he grabs her wrist, keeping her close.

"They're real?" she breathes. It's not quite a question, but knowing that the claws of the demons have left behind physical evidence – real pain – makes it impossible to ignore them or dream them away. The adrenaline of the fight still hasn't faded, though there is no evidence of a battlefield anymore, at least not a recent battlefield. This part of Orlais is scattered with ruins and choked with weeds. Bull grunts, staring out at the stillness of the burned and dead grasses. The air is dry and cold, eerily so. He reaches up and scratches the back of his neck.

"Real enough," he insists. "World's all ripped up. I never thought I'd be fighting demons with an axe."

"Aren't you afraid?"

"Sure. But fear is just a tool. You know that." She doesn't ask him how he knows and he doesn't ask her what she's scared of.

"It doesn't feel like a tool," she tells him. "It just feels like being scared."

Bull cracks a smile. "If you didn't know how to use it, you wouldn't have survived." He starts massaging her shoulder, and she presses herself closer to him. "Talk to me," he whispers.

"What am I supposed to talk about?"

"Fear."

"War stories?"

"You've gotta have a few."

She looks up at him, searching for something she can latch onto, some kind of guilt or certainty in his expression. "Empress Celene died," she reminds him. Bull shrugs. "The Inquisition was supposed to stop it."

"The Inquisition was supposed to stop the war in Orlais. Begin to weave a united front against the real threats. We can still do that. But that isn't what has you so worried," he adds softly. He has never seen her get worked up about politics. That isn't her fight. His either. They gather information, drink bad ale, have good sex. It's always been enough.

"The hole in the sky..." Eris says softly. "Until now, I'd never actually seen one."

"It's real now," Bull murmurs. She nods. "Tell me about Tevinter," he whispers, as he gently runs his fingers slowly up the hard line of her spine. The Empress is dead, but that isn't what has her worried.

She tenses up, just like he'd known she would. "That isn't fair," she murmurs.

"I know. But it's necessary."

"It doesn't matter! It doesn't have anything to do with where we are now!"

"It has everything to do with where you are now," he points out calmly.

She doesn't answer, doesn't look at him. She wonders how someone as strong and eager to fight as he is can be so smart and calm and quiet, and patient.

"You never talk about Seheron," she murmurs. She stares at a fraying hole beginning to form at the knee of his tent-like pants.

"You've never asked. I will if you want me to."

She shakes her head, uncertain what she'd gain. Knowing him, he'd just brag about his conquests. Bull smirks, as if reading her thoughts. Maybe he is. "You keep insisting that you're not a solider," he points out, as he kneads away at the deep tension in her muscles. She holds her breath, flinching at the painful pressure of his strong hands. But she doesn't push him away. "You won't let yourself see _what_ you are. Why?"

"Because I'm..." she stops talking almost before she starts, and rubs cautiously at her temples. How is she supposed to explain it?

Bull sighs. Her silence frustrates him, more than he wants to admit sometimes. But she's not a Ben-Hassrath prisoner he has to break.

"Saarebas," he murmurs. "That's what you are." His strong fingers never leave her body. The solid touch helps her as much as it helps him. It proves that she will not slip away, unless he lets her.

"Saarebas," she repeats. She trips over the unfamiliar Qunlat, but only a little. "That's your word for mage, right?"

"Sort of." There are a lot of words in his language that mean things in layers. Like _Ben-Hassrath_. Or _Tamassran_. "The closest translation is Dangerous Thing."

"I'm not dangerous!" Eris protests. Bull can practically feel her heart rate gaining speed as she struggles to defend herself.

"You are," he says calmly, still holding her. "And that's not a bad thing. Tell me about Tevinter."

She glares at him for a long time, but a watch shift leaves nothing but long hours in the dark, and her resolve begins to crumble, just like he'd known it would. She moves away, putting a safe distance between them as their small fire slowly burns to embers. Eris reaches out, holding her hand over the cold tinder and concentrating. A spark catches, licking at the dry wood and blossoming into a comfortable blaze within seconds. She's never done anything like that before, never even tried, but when she looks up at Bull, he's smiling.

He waits patiently, barely moving except to occasionally shift position or flex his fingers around the hilt of his weapon. "Start with something simple," he suggests. "Where'd you learn to cook?" The Chargers have already started asking her for food whenever they meet up. Bull swears Krem has started begging to find her when a mission brings them to Orlais.

"On a farm," Eris answers. And suddenly talking is easy, as simple as breathing out. "An olive farm, far away from... well, everything. I was... angry. Too much trouble in the city. They sent me out there hoping I'd learn my place, I guess. Or if that didn't work, at least I'd be hidden away where I couldn't do too much damage."

With eyes half-closed and mind skimming the Fade, it's almost like she's back there, eight years old and terrified, listening to conversations she clearly isn't supposed to hear. Back then, the thought of dying hadn't really frightened her, it barely held any meaning she could grasp.

"Hey," Bull whispers, reaching out for her. He doesn't touch her this time, waiting instead for her to come to him. She doesn't, quite, but that's okay. At least she's not actively avoiding him.

She meets his eyes – and more than that, she actively looks _into _them, searching for comfort, understanding, or the acceptance she desperately needs. The Qunari finds himself wondering if _anyone _has ever asked her what she needed, or taken the time to see her as anything other than someone they could use. "If you don't want to talk anymore, that's alright with me."

She shouldn't need his permission, but there's a part of her that still does, and he understands that. She'd said so, in one of their first uncertain meetings: it's easier when someone tells you what to do. He hadn't argued. He is Qunari, after all, although far from a model follower of the Qun. There is a certain comfort in predictable systems. And when you can add in a good fight, all the better.

"I want to..." she falters, uncertain what to say. No, she doesn't want to talk. But she will, if it means not pushing him away. "I want to _be _with you," she finally manages. Bull smiles. Her honesty is refreshing. Bright and real. It makes him feel like he can be something for her, like they belong together.

"Of course, Saarebas." He doesn't tell her how dangerous it is, letting himself feel this deeply for her. But she understands it anyway. She must. "Sun's coming up," he says, nodding at the lightening sky. "Someone else can let us know if there's an attack coming."

* * *

Eris is breathing hard and heavy before Bull has even gotten his pants off. He teases her with his tongue, painting it over her skin, rough and wet. She spreads her fingers over his chest, circling his nipple with her thumb. He radiates heat, and it seems to flow from his body into hers. His breath washes over the back of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. Bull flicks at Eris' undergarments with fingers too thick to easily work their way under them. She squirms, trying to kick off the clothing that isn't already thrown somewhere on the floor of the tent. Bull laughs, until she pushes him away and hastily disrobes. "Your turn," she whispers against his next, but he holds her against his expansive chest and takes his time. He rests the palm of his hand against her thigh and she shifts until she's straddling him. His erection bulges against the fabric of his pants. The blankets piled on the floor of the tent are barely enough to cushion her when Bull pushes her to the ground. He pins her wrists above her head, and cups one of her breasts in one huge hand. She kicks outward, aiming for his stomach.

"Settle down," he orders, but his eyes are bright and she can hear the laughter in his voice.

"No," she demands stubbornly. He flips her over, running his hand over her bare ass. She settles down. A minute later she's on her hands and knees, panting and crying. Bull holds her against his chest with one arm. His fingers pump between her legs. She's soaked with sweat, and shivering. Bull breathes her in. He finally kicks off his pants.

* * *

They stay in the tent until midday, watching the diffuse light filter in. Bull runs his fingers through Eris' hair. On a whim, he sticks a handful of it in his mouth, making her roll over and stare at him, with questions in her eyes. He silences her with one finger over her lips. "It reminds me of chocolate," he murmurs. "You remind me of chocolate."

Eris tries to laugh, but it comes out sounding like more of an exhausted sigh. "You cheat," she accuses. Bull hugs her close, and lets her rest.

* * *

The winter-grey sky clings close to the land, making Eris feel like she's walking through a stormcloud. She can't see the trees that she knows are just a few paces away, making it feel like night is falling even earlier than it already does this time of year. She scans the horizon, looking for any sign of the jagged green rip that was there yesterday. There's nothing.

"Fear is nothing to be ashamed of, you know?" An unfamiliar man leans against a nearby tree, looking for all the world as though he's simply out for a stroll. There is a tension in his words that Eris can just make out. He stares off into the distance, following her gaze. "The world is ripping apart. I feel it too."

Eris' heart starts pounding in her chest. His accent is too familiar. Prim and proper, a perfect reflection of his upbringing. Not Orlesian. Tevinter. Altus. It sets her teeth on edge.

"Relax," the man says, holding his palms up and out to show that he's unarmed, not that it matters. "I'm not here to assassinate your Inquisitor or anything."

"Your people killed the Empress of Orlais."

"_Not_ my people," he growls. "I want to help you fight them."

"Why?"

"Does he know where you're from?" he asks. Eris doesn't answer, and she doesn't take her eyes off of him. "I'm just here to talk. I swear."

* * *

"Talk," Leliana demands. It's a soft interrogation, but there's no mistaking the fact that it _is_ an interrogation. The mage sits under Leliana's merciless gaze with lyrium cuffs on his wrists. Eris watches, occasionally translating a word or a concept that doesn't have an easy match in Orlesian. Dorian talks to her easily, holding nothing back.

"He's telling the truth," Eris finally says. She watches Leliana carefully, seeking a reaction. She knows she isn't as good at reading people as the spymaster probably is, but she believes him.

Leliana nods. "We can use him."

"I am sitting right here," Dorian says slyly. "Helpless, tired, and hungry, but certainly not deaf." He holds up his hands, still shackled together. His skin is unnaturally flush beneath the cold metal. Eris grabs the key from the nearby table and unlocks the cuffs before she can think about it.

"Thank you."

"I still don't like you," she demands.

"I wouldn't dream of asking you to."


	9. Chapter 9

Gaspard's camp is centered in the crumbling ruin of a long-abandoned mansion in the Dales. Soldiers wander in and out of the large hall that's been set up as a mess. It's comfortably similar to the decrepit taverns where Eris has spent most of the last several years.

The men wrap their arms around her skinny waist, and fondle her under the tables, and she lets them. She gives them what they want and they drop their guard – they don't pay attention to what they say around her, or keep an eye on the scraps of paper or valuables they leave lying around in the open. Soldiers are predictable, and the alliance between Gaspard's new Orlesian regime and the Inquisition seems to be going well. Eris doesn't give anybody any reason to complain.

If anyone's out of place, it's the pompous Tevinter expatriate who bounces around drawing attention and complaining about everything. "Whose face are you imagining?" Dorian asks, as he leans on the corner of the rough wooden table, watching Eris throw another knife at the target pinned up on the wall several paces away.

"Yours," she says matter-of-factly, as it hits the bulls-eye. She glances at him – and his obnoxious smirk – as she turns away from the dart-board. "What do you want?"

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Why?"

He shrugs, although he seems neither surprised nor overly bothered by her hostility. Eris throws another knife. It misses the target – she hadn't really been looking – but it thunks deep into the wall, so she's satisfied enough.

Dorian sits down to watch her throw, but she only has one knife left, and she keeps it in her hand, flipping it between her fingers. She glances at his uncovered arm, where the burn left behind by the lyrium cuffs hasn't quite faded. She settles against the table, waiting for him to say something. But he doesn't. It's downright unnerving. She scratches idly at a spot just above her ear, and shifts so that she's looking at him. He tries to smile at her, but it's noticeably awkward. "She tell you to keep an eye on me?"

"Nah. She doesn't trust me around you." Dorian nods, and lets the matter drop. He can't tell if she's telling the truth or just trying to make light of the situation with a quip that tells him what he expects to hear, but it doesn't particularly matter. "Were you serious about that drink?" Eris finally asks.

Half an hour later, they're most of the way through a bottle of wine. Dorian grimaces with each taste, but the mediocre Orlesian vintage is still more palatable than any of the scattered unlabelled bottles of hard liquor from Maker knows where, especially this early in the day, and he's never acquired a taste for ale.

Eris watches him, leaving her own drink mostly untouched. She pushes gently on his thoughts, trying to figure out what he's not saying. His reaction is instantaneous – and predictable. His eyes widen in shocked recognition, and he lashes out. Eris' head spins, and she has to grab hold of the edge of the table, until the wave of dizziness passes. "What did you do?" she asks cautiously.

"You think I don't know how to protect myself?"

"Most people don't," she murmurs. She rubs at her temple, trying to ease away the worst of the pain. "Most people don't even feel it."

"That's... amazing," Dorian breathes. He's already trying to analyze what it all means, to make sense of this power she wields without thinking. It's magic, certainly, but unlike any he's encountered before. It's softer, somehow. More insidious. His eyebrows knit together, a deep line furrows just above his nose as he loses himself in thought. "Don't the demons call to you?"

"I guess. There are dreams, sometimes. And..." she trails off, uncertain how much she trusts him with. She isn't sure she wants to tell him how hard it is to hold onto herself, when reality itself is bleeding, ripping at everyone who can reach beyond the constantly-weakening barrier into the dream-world where true power resides. The Fade too, lashes out to protect itself.

"How do you deal with it?" she asks quietly.

Dorian shrugs. "Practice, mostly. I've been walking through the Fade since I was a child, commanding its power to suit my needs. It's a careful dance. The demons listen to me. And the ones that don't, I avoid them."

"Oh, sure. It's really that easy."

"Never said it was easy. But I can help you, a lot more than anyone here. They're too afraid of magic to effectively wield any of it."

"Yeah, well. Maybe they should be."

"Damn it!" Dorian spits. He slams his fist down on the table, enough to make Eris jump. "If you're afraid of it, it _will _control you!" His anger washes over her, and it's enough to make her retreat. Dorian sighs. "Don't be afraid of me," he demands.

"Because you order me not to?"

"Because I'm _not _one of them. I'm not -"

"You're an Altus!"

"I hate them just as much as you do. Would you _please_ just listen to me?"

Eris shrugs. "I'm not the one you have to convice."

"The Inquisitor trusts me."

"He doesn't know you like I do."

"You _don't_ know me." Dorian tells himself that the Inquisitor trusts him enough. He's here, isn't he? He's grown used to having to constantly prove himself, even more so here in the southern lands. For some reason it seems more difficult to do so with her. Someone else from home, who has every reason to hate him.

"I guess we'll see," Eris snaps. She stands up, retrieving the rest of her knives from the wall. "Thanks for the wine."

She doesn't wait for Dorian's response, if there is one. There are other places she is supposed to be.

"This will be dangerous," Leliana says aloud. Eris studies the spymaster out of the corner of her eye. The human woman no doubt knows she's being watched, but Eris is being as non-confrontational as possible, so Lel doesn't call her out on it. She leans over her work table, her red hair hanging into her eyes, unheeded. Eris moves a few steps closer, enough to recognize a map of Western Orlais.

"What're we doing?" she murmurs.

Leliana sighs. "From what we can tell, the Tevinter cultists..." Eris doesn't miss the way she glances at her when she says that, seeking her reaction. Eris doesn't particularly _have _a reaction. She stays still, waiting for her boss to talk. Leliana nods subtly, before continuing. "... have taken control of Adamant. The region is surrounded by old ritual towers, which means the Veil there is likely very weak."

Eris nods. There are places all throughout Tevinter that have made her feel unsettled and afraid. Nothing she can pinpoint, just the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, places where the Soporati whispered rumors of unexplained phenomena. People in the South are much more superstitious, more likely to speak of ghosts, ancient spirits, and old gods. She figures the silence is stronger back home because those things are closer and more dangerous, not because they aren't there.

"You got this information from Master Pavus?"

Leliana blinks, standing up straight to look Eris in the eye. "It's good information. Our people have confirmed its accuracy." Eris nods. She trusts Leliana, and the last thing she needs is to let Dorian Pavus get into her head. Leliana turns back to the map, beckoning Eris to join her at the table. "Cullen assures me that the fortress itself will not stand up to a prolonged assault from our siege weapons. But we need someone who can get inside. Give our soliders accurate information about what they're walking into. Weaken the enemy if you can."

"Master Pavus could be more useful than I am," Eris points out.

"Master Pavus will be more _obvious_ than you are. Forget tooting his own horn, the man travels with a marching band."

Eris nods, knowing Leliana is right. The Venatori won't know she speaks their language, if they know she's there at all. She can sneak into places no Altus ever could. She'd done it all through her teenage years, after all; hiding in plain sight, taking things they'd never notice missing. She'd bought her freedom that way, slow and steady, piece by piece.

"How long will I be there?"

Leliana holds her gaze. It's been a long time since she's seen Eris so obviously worried. "As long as you have to be," she says. Acknowledging the woman's fear is likely only to make it worse, so she projects confidence. There's no one else who can do this specific job, not nearly as well.

Eris nods, blowing out a long breath, pushing away her fear. "Okay," she says simply. If Leliana asks her to, she'll do it. There's nothing else she has to know.

* * *

"This was a mistake," Trevelyan murmurs. Across from the fire, Bull lifts his head to glance at the Inquisitor, but no one else seems to react to the young man's soft words. Jacob gets up, beginning to pace across the frozen ground. If he squints, he swears he can see a green glow in the distance. Another hole in the sky. Every time he closes one, it rips him apart even more.

"You heading out, Boss?" Bull asks. He's already getting to his feet, ready to help clear out another pack of demons. A fight might be good, get the blood pumping after too many days sitting still and making nice with the nobility.

"I have to close the Breach," Jacob insists. He turns away from the horizon, and stares instead at Bull, as if looking for confirmation. The Qunari shrugs.

"Sure thing."

"Coming here was a _mistake_," the boy demands. It sounds like something he's said before. "We came here to stop someone from killing the Empress, and we failed! Gaspard's in charge now, which he would've been whether we were here or not. I need to go back home."

"You really think that, I won't stop you. But don't forget, you've still got people here."

"You're staying?"

"Yeah, Boss. I got a thing with a girl."

* * *

"Sit down!" Hawke screams. She throws the boy to the garden bench, not caring how hard he hits the stone. Her fingers wrap tight around his upper arm. She will not let him go until she's _certain _he won't go after the templar. He scowls up at her from behind a curtain of unkempt auburn hair, and she can feel the crackling of the barely-controlled mana playing over his skin. She concentrates, drawing the boy's power in to mix with her own and bleed out. He rips his arm away from her. But his glare has turned to wide-eyed shock. He's afraid of her. Good.

A few feet away, the handful of former templars waits, which is itself a major change. Once upon a time, they would have attacked first and made their excuses later, if at all. Hawke makes eye contact with the older one, a man who straddles the border between grandfatherly and intimidating. "Thank you," she says softly. The templar nods slightly. Just behind him, a younger boy restrains his friend, the recruit who had taken a swing at the mageling who had just attacked him. His knuckles are still scraped and bloody.

All of them watch her with a guarded expression just shy of hostile, but Hawke is keeping careful control of her mana, proving, as she must, every second of every day, that she is not a threat to anyone here.

"The war is over," she snarls, to the impulsive kid, and anyone else that might follow him.

"It isn't," another girl says. She hovers in the alcove that leads to the Chantry proper, and her eyes flicker from Hawke to the templars. Her voice is soft, but there's no mistaking the harsh anger in it. "They're still watching us. They'd kill us if they could."

The thing is, Hawke can't even tell her she's wrong. "Don't give them a reason to," she says instead.

The boy shakes his head. "You're just like them," he accuses. "You're a traitor. You'll sell us out for a pat on the head from the Chantry. You want their forgiveness."

"The war is _over_," Hawke spits. "It's over and we lost. There is _nothing_ left anymore, except the Inquistion. Yes, the templars here would kill us if they could. So would everyone out there." She waves her hand out to encompass the wider world. "Nobody's keeping you here," she mutters. "Leave if you want to."

The silence stretches out for long seconds. Hawke keeps her hands clenched into a tight fist, wishing she didn't feel so fucking guilty. The war is over, and they lost. The boy finally bows his head, avoiding both her gaze and that the of the templars. "I'm sorry," he finally mutters.

"The Breach is growing more unsettled," Solas muses, as Hawke paces the low wall ringing the Chantry a few hours later.

"It looks the same to me," she muses.

The elf stares at the sky with a calmness that belies his apocalyptic predictions. "The storm is underneath."

She stares at it for another minute, searching for words. "Sounds about right."

Solas glances at her, his thin smile an attempt at comfort that falls flat, but honestly so. Hawke doesn't mind. She's not in much of a mood for jokes either. "The Inquisitor is returning from Halamshiral," he tells her.

"Do you think...?"

"He will not wait. He cannot."

Above them, green lightning crackles in the swirling chaos of the clouds. Hawke nods. "We'll be ready."


	10. Chapter 10

Bull leans on the rickety camp table, frowning at a map of the battlefield. "I don't like it," he demands. He shakes his huge horned head, clenching a fist and slamming it down on the table, trying in vain to see a solution where there isn't one. "A frontal assualt... they'll see us coming. A lot of men'll die for nothing."

He wraps his fingers around his favorite battleaxe, though their camp is nearly a day's ride from the fortress, and there is nothing here for him to assault.

"She's fine, Boss," Krem says simply. Bull glares at him, but the Chargers' lieutenant doesn't blink. Bull sighs, but doesn't bother denying his fear. It's just a tool, one he'll use to get all of his people out of this shithole safely. Eris too.

The Veil is thin here, making everyone jumpy and unsettled. The searing dry heat of the desert sucks away every comfort. Gritty dust blows everywhere, stinging their eyes, coming in through the cracks in the heavy canvas walls of her tents. "They know we're here," he murmurs.

Across from him, Dorian nods. "Count on it."

Bull scowls at the 'Vint mage.

Dorian is here because he has some idea of what the Venatori tactics are likely to be – a better idea than any of the rest of them, certainly. "We provide a distraction, then," the mage muses. "Allow a small strike force to get through undetected. Eris can alert our people on the inside, bring them into the fight... Cullen did provide us with a fairly sizeable army," he adds, when the scowl on Bull's face hasn't seemed to change.

"Green recruits, most of 'em," the Qunari spits.

"They've been training for half a year," Krem ventures carefully.

"Every hour we wait here just gives the Venatori more time, more power..." Dorian insists. "That's the last thing we want."

"What are they trying to do?" Bull asks.

Dorian sighs, staring at the map. "According to Eris' information... it seems likely that they are attempting to speed the destruction of the world. Secure the power of the Fade by tearing the Veil down completely. They..." he blows out a long breath, trying to come to terms with the full impact of what he's saying. "The Venatori I know... they seek to become gods. To succeed where the first magisters failed."

"You're telling me they're performing blood magic rituals in there? Binding demons?"

"Almost certainly. They proved at the Winter Palace that they've been experimenting with time manipulation. If they can manage to manufacture a Fade Rift, perhaps they can manipulate space as well." Dorian spreads out one of the fragmented notes Eris had managed to smuggle out of the fortress. "I know this man. Magister Alexius. He's ruthless and powerful, but I never thought..." He shakes his head, looking pained. "Have the Chargers lead Cullen's men in the frontal assault. If you draw their attention... there's a chance he might listen to me."

"You expect me to trust you?"

"Send a guard to watch me, then. But the more people you saddle me with, the less likely this will work."

"I'll go with you."

"No way. As soon as a Qunari sets foot into a Venatori stronghold, the whole mission collapses."

"I will," Krem announces. Dorian stares at him for a long moment, then nods. "Dalish too," Krem adds. "She has ways of countering magic. They won't expect it."

"Fine."

Bull holds Krem's gaze for a long time, then he claps his second-in-command on the shoulder. He rumbles something in Qunlat, and begins rolling up the maps, ready to break camp and bring the fight to the enemy over the ridge.

* * *

"Come here, girl."

Eris takes a careful step forward, keeping her eyes on the floor, bowing her head in quiet obedience. She holds herself still, though the piercing gaze of the Venatori makes her want to shiver. Her heartbeat pumps so loudly beneath her ribcage that she wonders if he can here it too.

"Livius..." one of the younger magisters whispers. The cult leader raises a hand, silencing the boy quickly and effectively. Eris waits.

"Look at me," Magister Erimond demands. When she doesn't do it fast enough, he does it for her, using the invisible but forceful touch of magic to pull her a few steps closer to him and jerk her head upward to meet his eyes. He glares down at her, his lips curled into a cruel sneer. His eyes flash, all greed and power. He releases his magical hold on her, suddenly, and she barely manages to catch herself before she lands face-first on the hard stone floor. She draws in a shaky breath, and tries to calm the fear raging inside her. "She'll do, Alexius. Prepare her."

"Magister, if I may presume..."

Erimond spits, and his wet spittle lands just in front of Eris' feet. The man is not used to being challenged, yet he and Alexius stand on equal footing in the eyes of the Magisterium. Alexius is an upstart, with a dangerous desperate streak and some crazily destructive ideas, yet Erimond cannot afford to antagonize him, not if they are to achieve the goals of the Venatori here in the southern lands. The power they seek will rip them apart if they do not approach it with a united front. "Speak," he snaps.

Alexius glances at Eris, looking at her rather than Erimond. It may be a dangerous gamble, but it's one he's willing to take. "She's far more valuable to you alive. If you seek more power, there are a hundred slaves you can bleed dry. This one..."

"She has magic in her," Erimond hisses. "I can hear it singing. She will be a tempting feast to beckon those we need on the other side of the Veil."

"She's a spy. She's been sending information to the Inquisition for weeks."

"All the more reason to remove her presence from within our midst! And yours, if you have been keeping her hidden from me!"

"Will you be so incredibly foolish as to let your pride blind you? She can draw him right to us!"

"Take care the way you speak to me, Gereon."

A wet, hacking cough suddenly echoes through the room. Eris looks for its source, and Gereon Alexius clenches his fingers tightly around his staff. His knuckles turn white, and some of the color drains from his face. "Felix, my boy," he asks nervously.

"I'm... I'm alright, Father. Please, just..."

"My son will need his rest," Gereon announces.

"Do you think I am a nursemaid? What use do I have – what use do the _Venatori _have – for a dying boy and his weak-willed father?"

Alexius ignores the obvious bait, and pretends instead that he does not hear Erimond's words. "See to my son," he says instead to Eris.

"Yes, Master," she murmurs, her voice so low-pitched and unobtrusive that it almost seems felt rather than heard.

"You let her roam freely? Knowing what she is!" Erimond rages. "And yet you have the _audacity _to call me foolish!"

Alexius shrugs. "Keep friends close, and keep enemies closer," he quotes.

Erimond laughs, a cold, cruel chuckle. _Which then are you_? he wonders.

* * *

"I do not agree with what my father is doing," Felix Alexius announces, as he enters a private bedroom and begins loosening the collar of his robes. "Shut the door." Eris does as she's told, pulling the heavy wooden door closed with barely a sound. "You're good at keeping quiet," Felix notes.

"Yes, Master."

"Call me Felix. Please." Eris lets her eyes flicker upward, almost meeting his. Felix sighs and sits down heavily on the bed. There are several layers of blankets despite the dry heat outside. He smiles nervously. "I don't have a lot of time left to waste on useless games." Eris says nothing. What is she supposed to say? "Join me, please."

As she's hesitating, he breaks into another coughing fit. His skin flushes, at first red, and then purple. Eris reacts without thinking, kneeling next to him on the bed, placing her hand on his back. Felix draws in deep, rattling gasps of air. Eris lets her eyes drift closed. She pulls at the strongest of the feelings he projects: pain, fear... she draws them into herself. After a moment, Felix's breathing grows easier. He looks into her eyes, and Eris doesn't pull away. "What are you doing here?" he asks.

"Magister Alexius ordered -"  
Felix's grip on her wrist tightens, effectively silencing her. "That's not what I meant and you know it." She breaks away, holding her breath. His fingers seem to burn like fire against her skin. "You don't want to lie to me," Felix warns. His voice is pitched low and threatening enough that she believes him.

"I'm not lying."

Felix snorts. "You're not saying anything," he points out needlessly.

"I'm here to serve you. Whatever you need."

"You know I'm dying, right?"

Eris shrugs. "So you probably need a lot of things?"

Felix smiles. "The Inquistion is planning to attack us, aren't they?" Eris doesn't answer, and Felix sighs. "I know you won't believe me, why should you? But I'm on your side." He rests his hand on her shoulder, trying to make her feel more at ease. Eris relaxes into his touch, finding the hidden reservoir of calm within herself that will let her get through this. Felix notices, and pulls back. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

Eris startles. "Why?" she blurts out. Felix chuckles, and Eris' eyes narrow. "You're not on my side," she insists. "You..." her breathing starts to come in quick gasps and her mana spins out of control, flailing outward, pushing at him. He's a _magister_. A cultist whose sole goal is the total destruction of the world.

A hard slap crashes against her cheek. Eris raises a hand, rubbing at the sting. She stares at Felix, feeling the tears welling up her eyes. She blinks them away. Felix licks dry lips, and holds her, until she's certain she's listening. "If you do that again, I might not be able to help you."

"You're not on my side," she demands stubbornly.

"I'm a dead man," Felix chuckles. "I'm not on anyone's side."

Eris stares at him, with brow furrowed. "You really mean it," she finally breathes. "You want your father... you want them to fail."

"Don't tell anyone," Felix whispers softly.

* * *

"Have you heard from her?" Dorian asks softly.

"Wasn't expecting to," Bull growls. "She'll know we're coming."

"How?"

At that, Bull laughs out loud. "We're not exactly trying to hide."

He waits until he hears the rumble of cannon fire, then pulls Dorian, Krem, and Dalish toward a small grate that the committee of people studying ancient maps of the fortress had discovered. The wall itself is crumbling, but even the Venatori aren't so stupid as to leave the place unguarded. Bull grins, practically whistling as he pulls out his axe. Krem is more serious about the fight, but he's no less pleased to wipe a few more cultists off the map.

"They're letting us in," Dorian insists.

"You think so?" Krem asks. "Those guards put up a decent fight."

"It's really not they're fault they're going up against the Chargers," Bull agrees. He won't admit that it does seem a little too easy. There's no sense making his crew any more worried than they already are. "Keep your eyes open," he says.

Dalish smiles. "Always, Boss."

As they creep through the collapsing halls of the fortress, it grows more and more obvious that Dorian's suspicions are more than just suspicions: the Venatori want the Inquisition's advance team to get through. "They've practically sent us a handwritten invitation," Dorian mutters.

"This place has got you pretty worked up," Bull observes.

Dorian doesn't bother answering. "Feel that?" he whispers.

"I do," Dalish mutters. She scrapes her staff across the stone floor.

"Feels like there's a spider crawling on the back of my neck," Krem says quietly.

"Blood magic," Dorian confirms. "This place is practically drowning in it."

"They're close? The ones leading this crusade?"

"Just on the other side of that door, I think."

Bull laughs, hacking at the door with his axe. It falls inward, leaving sad splinters on the floor. His single eye roves over the large room, immediately alighting on Eris. She stands, still and silent, a human shield held close to the chest of one of the magisters – a man with a pointed dark beard and darker eyes. He holds a dagger to Eris' throat, and he makes eye contact with each one of the invaders in turn.

"So good of you to join us, ambassadors of the Inquisition," Livius Eremond sneers. His voice is silky and smooth.

"Let her go," Dorian demands. Voices all around him laugh.

"Do you think you have any standing to make demands of me, Dorian, formerly of House Pavus. You have been stripped of everything, a traitor to your family and country."

"At least I'm not a blood mage! Or a murderer."

"Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the good of the Imperium. But you were always far to selfish to understand that, boy."

"You dare?" Dorian demands.

"Shut it!" Bull snaps. He keeps his eyes locked on Eris, but she won't look at him. She doesn't look at anyone. She barely seems to register their presence, and only the slight rise and fall of her chest offers proof of life.

Dorian draws on the power of the Veil, already weakened by the magic that has been worked in this room. His eyes widen as he realizes what these magisters have been doing. "They don't need the Inquisitor to manipulate the Veil," he chokes out. "They can do it themselves."

A familiar green tear breaks through the air before he's finished speaking.

"Fuck!" Krem spits. Bull ignores the demons materializing from nowhere, and charges toward the magister who holds Eris in his arms. She falls to her knees, blood pouring from a shallow cut at her throat as he drops her. Bull punches the man, his huge fist bashing in the man's face and coming away bloody. Magic crackles out from the magisters fingers, raw electricity and force. Bull screams as the energy rips away at his skin, but he stays standing, drawing on Ben-Hassrath training and the vitaar that protects him more thoroughly than any conventional armor.

Eris crawls away from Magister Erimond. Raw terror rips at her mind, pain sears through her body, though no hand touches her. She cries, begging incoherently, for all of it to stop. She lashes out with power, the same way she once had as a child: _Leave me alone,_ she thinks. And the power, on the other side of the flickering Veil, responds to her desperate commands. A wave of invisible force ripples outward from her, throwing the magisters away from her, into the fight with the Chargers who have come here, expecting help she could not give.

She does not see the fight, but she feels it. Every blow seems to smash into her bruised and broken body, every scream – from anyone – rips painfully from her already raw and bloody throat; A flickering green light obscures her vision. She cannot tell if someone has cast a spell to make her suffer this way, or if it is only the Fade itself, claiming merciless vengeance on the world that had for so long attempted to keep it locked away. "I'm sorry," she murmurs.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Bull says softly, as he picks her up and cradles her the way he would a child.

They stand surrounded by the demons and the dying in the wreckage of a collapsing fortress. The roof has long since been ripped away. There is no protection from the open sky and brutal windstorms. The rift in the Fade, once opened, cannot be closed. Demons scream and press against the fragile barrier Eris has barely managed to call into being.

Dorian does what he can, leaving himself open so that she can pull in mana from him to reinforce her own; but she has never been trained to use her magic properly even in the best of circumstances, and she is only grasping desperately for survival now.

"Dorian!" He turns around, lingering dangerous close to the tear in reality, as someone calls his name. A voice he hasn't heard since...

"Felix..." he murmurs. The spirits hover close, calling to their kindred, so close to crossing to their side of the Veil. Dorian reaches out, begging for their kindness.

"They'll listen to me," Felix manages to choke out. "They know I'm one of them. They will... they'll let you leave, if I ask them to." He will give himself to placate their hunger – that much is unspoken, yet understood. Felix' blue-grey eyes hold no fear. He offers his old friend one final smile.

"Thank you, my friend," Dorian murmurs. The words barely escape his lips.

"Get us out of here!" Dorian yells.

Krem pushes open the door.

* * *

Outside, the Inquisition's army breaks against Adamant's walls. Their siege equipment does its job, smashing rocks and flasks of fire against and over the rock. But the Venatori hold the high ground, and wield the primal forces of nature with ruthless efficiency. The blood of slaves fuels inhuman power. Ice and lightning chain through Cullen's green boys, leaving nothing but charred bones behind. The demons claim what's left. Of the thousands sent to take the fortress, perhaps a few dozen manage to run, to save their lives.


	11. Chapter 11

Jacob clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. He holds his arms crossed over his armored chest, and he takes a few deep calming breaths as he stares up at the tumultuous sky. Josephine's fingers lace into his own, and when he glances at her she wears an expression of determination that matches his own. She gives him a nod, then lets go of his hand and pushes him forward.

A new dusting of snow crunches beneath his boots with every step. The wind whistles in his ears. After just a few seconds, he is alone at the edge of a cliff, with the sky roaring above and around him. He glances backward nervously, but quickly. Josephine won't let him hesitate for more than a moment.

They cannot wait any more. Every report he has, from Inquisition agents stretching across Orlais and Ferelden, provides evidence that the Fade Rifts seeded from this tear in the fabric of reality are growing; in size, and in number, and in damage caused. He cannot be everywhere at once. The only chance he has to set things right is to shut things off at the source. And this, he cannot do alone.

He glances back once more, not toward Josephine this time, but to the army at his back. There is a restless murmur of dozens of mages, waiting. Most of them are young, but they have been hardened by a war they did not ask for. They fear the tear in the sky, but against people, they are hardened and aggressive. Even against him. They will work with him to do this thing though, because no one else can. The Breach was created by magic – _is _magic – and magic is the only way to close it.

Jacob can feel the pressure of the Fade pushing down on him, the whispers at the edges of his mind that seem to dig deep into his soul. His left hand flares with searing pain, enough to bring tears to his eyes. He takes another deep breath, then announces, in a calm, clear voice, what he'll need to do: "I need help," he says simply. His voice carries into the emptiness. Someone grabs his hand; through fluttering eyelids, he can't tell who. But he recognizes the upswell of power they dump into him.

The mark on his hand skips and, finally, catches, pulled toward the source of its own aberrant nature. Jacob bites his lip and struggles to stay standing as these uncontainable forces war, all around and through him. The demons howl at the edge of the Veil, creeping closer, their curiosity pulling them toward the world of living flesh as the Herald of Andraste fights for control of the Breach. Solas, at his side, holds his breath and digs in deep, drawing strength from the Fade and from the world around it. The elven mage does not falter. His magic reflects knowledge of these currents of power far more than any of the rest of them, and his easy confidence provides a buoy that pulls Jacob up to crest above the crashing waves of force. What they are doing is difficult but not complicated: with enough strength, they can slam a door shut.

The Breach swirls around them, rushing and violent, sucking in the power that they feed it. Jacob reaches, feeling-but-not-feeling his arm pulled toward the opening that reflects in the jagged unnatural gash across his palm. An invisible, powerful force yanks against his fragile body, pulling his arm out of its socket, ripping and tearing. He screams behind clenched teeth. A rattling vibration shakes through every bone in his body.

Fingers tighten and squeeze at his right hand, keeping him grounded. The all-over pain eases slightly. The pressure fades. He gasps for breath, and darkness tints the edges of his vision.

"Did it work?" a teenage voice asks cautiously.

Jacob tries to pull himself to his feet, but it hurts too much. Someone runs toward him. He recognizes Josephine's soft fingers stroking his arm. Her perfume envelops him. He smiles. "Did it work?" he chokes out, repeating the boy's question.

Hawke lets go of his hand. She glances over at the mages she'd brought here to fight with Jacob – Inquisitor Trevelyan. They're exhausted. So is she. But the sky seems clear and calm, for the first time in months. There is no green tear, no visible demons pressing against the hole in the world. She takes a deep breath, blows it out slowly.

Jacob's left hand flickers and flares; the light is pale and easily swallowed in the daylight. She helps him to his feet. "I don't know," she answers honestly.

* * *

"Hey," Cullen murmurs softly. Hawke glances up. Even now, when the cold clear light of midday has given way to the dark of night, her head still feels too heavy to lift, her heartbeat still races too fast. The green tendrils of the Fade still wrap themselves around her, cutting sharp and deep.

She can feel the touch of Cullen's antimagic, a burn on the surface of the pain. She struggles to a sitting position.

"Don't -" Cullen begins, but she shakes her head. She is not _that _weak. She _pushes _at him, with what little mana she is able to summon, but he smacks her, hard. His face immediately flushes to the same red color of the mark he's left behind. Mira holds her hand to her cheek. The shock and the pain is already fading. "I'm sorry," Cullen murmurs. It's old habits. Old, bad habits. He should be better than this.

Hawke shakes her head, pushing away his guilt. "I don't know if I'm supposed to be mad at you," she mutters. Cullen smiles grimly, and sets himself down on the cot next to her. For a long moment, neither of them speak. This close, it's easy to see Cullen's hands shaking, the bloodshot red of his eyes. "It's been a long time since I lost control," she points out.

"I don't think you've ever done anything like what you did today."

Hawke nods, conceding the point. "You got all my kids under guard?" she asks.

Cullen sighs. Mira doesn't miss the way he flinches when she refers to the remnants of the mage army as _hers. _But they are. She won't apologize for that.

He nods, answering her question, and Mira holds his gaze. "Just be careful," she insists. "They don't all know you like I do."

"We know what we're doing."

The way he says it, she instantly believes it. She has never been afraid of him, but she knows he can handle himself. If one of her kids tries to fight against him, they'll lose.

Cullen pulls away, stands up, starts pacing. He leans against the wall, just inside the door, unable to stay but unwilling to leave. "Solas says the Breach is truly closed," he says softly. "There has been no rift activity. In fact, he says there is no magical activity at all. He seemed almost disappointed."

Hawke tries to smile, but she's too tired for it to reach her eyes. She settles for nodding instead. All that she knows is that Cullen is pissed at her. He won't say it; he hurts too much, he blames himself for how shitty he feels off the lyrium, and he feels shitty because he thinks he deserves to. Mira knows that he used to want to be a hero, but now she figures he's mostly just tired. "They're still looking to me for advice," she mutters. "Asking me what they're supposed to do, wanting me to keep them safe. And I'm not sure if I can."

Cullen sighs. "You want to go back to the way things were before, but you can't do that." How far back would you go, anyway? Things fall apart, have been falling apart for decades; tiny cracks that cannot be closed.

Mira looks up, meeting his eyes. "Solas said the storm is underneath."

Cullen nods. "Yeah. I guess it is."

"So do you think we fixed it?"

"I dunno, Mira. I don't think it's that easy."

She frowns, staring up at him with dull eyes. Her head still hurts. "We're not talking about the Breach anymore, are we?"

"The Inquisition still needs me. Things are _starting_, not ending. But I won't make you stay."

"But you want me to?"

"Yeah, Mira. Of course I want you to."

Something stirs in her, old memories. And for once – for the first time in a _very _long time – they aren't all bad. She grins, tilting her head back to look up at Cullen. "You remember that time in the Blooming Rose?" she teases. He blushes furiously, but then he laughs. The sound swells over her, waking up something inside. Joy bubbles up, overwhelming her exhaustion, just for a little bit. "Come here," she says, reaching out for Cullen.

"Mira... I can't. We shouldn't."

"We never should have. What makes it different now?"

"Everything is different now."

"Not us." Her voice trembles just a little as she says it. She hadn't let herself recognize how much she missed him. "Please, Cullen," she murmurs. It doesn't have to be forever. They can pretend nothing is happening between them, she doesn't care about that. As long as he lets her come to him; as long as she's not completely alone.

He takes a few steps closer to her, and before she knows it, she's tucked against his chest. His arms wrap around her, protecting her. She brushes her lips against his, and she lets herself cry. She's still empty, but it isn't scary anymore. It almost feels like something good, like everything bad has been washed away. Cullen's hand presses between her breasts, above her heart.

In a moment, they're back on the cot, fumbling around until Mira is both afraid the flimsy bed might collapse, and beyond caring.

* * *

The road back to Haven is long. Eris shies away from the remnants of the Inquisition's forces, as much as it's possible to do so. Bull notices, of course. He doesn't chase after her at first, but after several days of watching her slipping away whenever she notices eyes on her, it becomes a game that he won't let himself lose. They've stopped for supplies and a few politically-important words with Gaspard's army, at one of the crumbling keeps scattered through the Dales. Far from making her feel better, Eris just feels trapped here; and Bull knows it.

He crests the battlements in the gathering dark, hanging back until she turns around, looking right at him. "Hey," he grunts.

"Hey."

He walks up to her without waiting for an invitation. She settles against his expansive chest, staring out at nothing. She holds herself tense, barely breathing. He runs a nail gently over the deep groove between her eyebrows that only manifests when she's worried. "Don't you trust me?" he asks softly. He exhales slowly, more comfortable now, with Eris' body comfortably wrapped up against his, than he can remember being in a long time. He glances down at her, watching the shadows of the campfire play across her features, painting sharp shadows over her nose and cheekbones.

Eris nods. "Of course I do."

"You think I'd back a losing horse? That I'd really join up with this Inquisition if the world were just gonna come to a fiery end anyway?"

Eris shifts position so that she can look into his single eye. He stares at her, unblinking. He remains completely still except for the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Eris bites her lip, wishing she could read him. He hasn't said a word to her since Adamant, none of them have. She's been holding her breath, for days, alone with only her nightmares. "Shit happens, Bull," she tells him, with shaky bravado she doesn't feel. "We can't stop all of it."

"We can stop some of it."

His voice is gruff and determined, and it's enough to make Eris believe him when he talks about keeping her safe, no matter what the threat. Demons, dragons... the kinds of kids' stories she hadn't believed in at all until a few months ago. He's gone up against all of it. But while she hides, and prays she can keep one step ahead of the apocalyptic army, the Qunari mercenary charges right into the fray.

She shrugs, trying to pull away from him, but he grabs her wrist, preventing her from leaving.

"Talk to me," he begs her.

She shakes her head. "I fucked up. I froze."

"You feel like shit, and you want me to punish you for it."

Eris can't look at him. She feels her face flush with heat. It feels ridiculous when he says it like that, it feels like a personal failing. Like there's something wrong with her. "There's nothing wrong with you," Bull growls. Eris sucks in a shocked breath. Even after all this time, it _unnerves_ her when he can do... that. "Adamant wasn't your fault. Those people didn't die because of you."

"Get out of my head," she murmurs.

"Quit being so fucking predictable," he counters easily.

She tries to pull away from him, but he doesn't let her, and he is so much stronger than she is. This is predictable too. For all his talk about wants and needs, she never seems to be able to tell the difference. She lets him figure it out.

He pulls her closer, presses their mouths together, lets his tongue slide between her lips. They kiss with heated passion until she comes up gasping for air. There is a dangerous twinkle in Bull's eye. He tucks a lock of tangled hair behind her ear with one blunted claw. The watch fires flicker below them, and he's always been able to see in the dark. "Let's go inside," he whispers. He's sure she can hear the roar of his heart, feel the heat of his body. He needs sex about as badly as she does, probably.

She glances up at him, nodding slowly.

The Keep is full of rooms that have gone unused for decades at least, maybe longer. Bull pads surprisingly softly through the darkness, pushing Eris ahead of him until he finds a half-open door that reveals a cavernous bedroom, coated in a thick layer of dust, but private. He grins hungrily, running his hand under Eris' shirt. She looks small, in this huge space. He wraps her up in his arms.

When he throws her down on the huge bed, she doesn't move, even though he's not even touching her anymore. She stares at him with wide eyes.

"Turn over," he orders. She resists the command, without even being sure why. The retribution is instantaneous. Bull does it for her, rolling her onto her stomach, spreading her legs with one huge hand. He takes her from behind, quick and rough. She doesn't cry, although he is being anything but gentle. There will be marks, raw bruises that will linger far longer than their time in this room.

"Feel better yet?" he asks, when he has spent himself inside her.

She doesn't reply. Bull sighs. His stubborn little Saarebas. She'd let him kill her and she wouldn't fight. He gives her pain because she wants it, but what he _needs _is the flicker of fire in her dark eyes. He laughs, deep and resonant, as she glares at him. Her resistance brings him alive.

He ties the ropes gently, waiting for her to protest, but she doesn't. He leaves her play, loose knots, easily to pull apart if she tries, even a little, but she doesn't. She stares at him with fierce fire in her eyes. He ties the ropes a little tighter. She doesn't flinch. "You wanna go again?" she asks. Her voice is rougher and deeper than it usually is, and it shakes just a little.

Bull grins, slapping her on the ass with his open hand. "Would you like that?"

She holds her breath for a long moment, then nods.

Bull sighs, laying down next to her. He rolls over and cups one of her breasts gently. He kisses her forehead, soft and slow. Her body is still soaked with sweat, and she pulls away when he runs his thumb over a tender patch of discolored flesh. "I'll go slow," he murmurs.

* * *

Eris wakes up early, too exhausted to think for the first time since Adamant. Bull snores loudly beside her. She slips out of the bed, holding her breath for a moment as she pads across the stone floor. Bull shifts position, his sudden silence proving that he's awake. But he lets her go. By the time she's out in the corridor, he's snoring softly again.

"You almost say the word, sometimes. _Katoh_. But you don't."

The rest of the Inquisition seems to be slowly getting used to Cole's intrusive comments, but Eris has survived as long as she has only by keeping things locked away. He unsettles her. For one thing, he just _appears_, out of nowhere.

When she came out to the grassy field just on the other side of the gates, it was empty. The colors seem brighter in the aftermath of a pouring rain that had swept through in the early morning hours. She glances back at the... half-spirit. She doesn't know what to call him. She's half-expecting him to not even be there anymore, but he is. He's no longer standing next to her; instead, he's sitting on a flat boulder that's mostly overgrown by the tall grasses, several paces away.

Eris frowns, but she avoids the obvious question. "People treat you like a child," she points out instead. "But you're not one."

Cole tilts his head back, staring at her from beneath his ridiculously wide-brimmed hat. He doesn't blink. He doesn't squirm. He's not a child.

He swings his legs back at forth through a small puddle of water, watching her reaction. Eris can't tell if he's acting to make her feel more comfortable, or if he's genuinely curious about the ripples and reactions his physical form creates.

"Bull doesn't need me to tell him when to stop," she finally says. The safe word is a security blanket, but it's one she's never needed to use. She trusts Bull. Far more, sometimes, than she trusts herself.

"You love him." Eris nods. "He loves you too. There's no word for love in Qunlat, but he loves you anyway." He pauses, cocking his head to the side, swinging his bare feet. "If he loves you, why does he hurt you?"

"Because I tell him to."

"That doesn't makes sense."

"People don't always make sense, Cole," Eris adds. "It's... not really hurting. Sometimes things that hurt can make you feel better."

"It's all mixed together," Cole laments, and Eris starts to think he understands a little bit after all. "Hurting and love."


	12. Chapter 12

By the time the survivors of Adamant have crossed the border from Orlais into Ferelden, public displays of affection between Eris and the Iron Bull have become so common as to be completely unremarkable. They snuggle together around the Chargers' evening campfires, and often venture out of the circle of the Inquisition's camps to hunt or gather firewood.

Krem has gone with them this morning, though he hangs back a little to offer the illusion of privacy. Eris still avoids him and most of the others who took the brunt of what she still perceives as her failure at the Venatori's stronghold. She still seems to think that she should've been able to single-handedly elimate opposition from the Tevinter cultists, no matter how often Krem reminds her, as gently as he can, that doing so was never her job. Still, she trusts Bull, and the Qunari shields her from the unwanted attention of the Inquisition's soldiers. With him nearby, she comes out of her shell a little bit. Krem catches glimpses of the girl he remembers from the crappy bars scattered through the slums of Orlais back when the Bull had simply been a mercenary captain, and Krem, at his side, sought nothing more than coin and ale. It's nice to see the Boss happy.

"Don't you have something useful to do, Krem? Tell the boys to break camp. We oughta be able to make it to Haven tonight or tomorrow."

Krem nods. "Whatever you say, Boss."

To be honest, he doesn't have to work very hard to rouse the rest of the Chargers. It's hard to temper the enthusiasm that comes with knowing that they'll be back at base within a day. Their pace quickens as they cross into the Hinterlands. "The first thing I'm gonna do is take a warm bath," Stitches insists.

"I'm looking forward to some food that doesn't come out of a backpack."

"It'll be nice to have something to work with," Eris agrees. She enjoys cooking, but she can't work miracles. At least not as much as the Chargers all seem to think.

A cheer fills them as move through the rocky paths, more recklessly than they should. Bull finally slows down, noticing, too late, that there's something off about this place. "Look around," he hisses. "There's nothing here. No animals. Only dead plants."

"Well, it is a war."

Eris nods. The farmlands here have been stripped bare, and desperate refugees have torn up what few forested areas the mages, templars, and bandits haven't already destroyed.

"That's not what I'm worried about. Look." Bull takes a few only a few steps off the trail before finding evidence to confirm his suspicions: there is a pile of scorched and gnawed bones, buried in a shallow grave. Claw marks surround the cache. "That's the work of a dragon."

"Dragons are just stories," Krem insists. "There haven't been any alive in a thousand years."

Bull doesn't bother answering. He doesn't have to. Far above their heads, a shadow darkens the sky.

The dragon circles in the sky above them, swooping low enough to spit fire that shakes Eris to the core. The ground shakes in tribute to the winged beast's passing. Bull whoops with joy, running along the rocks. "Will you _look _at that?" he yells, pumping his fist in the air.

"It's likely to kill us," Krem points out, though he doesn't sound particularly concerned. Honestly, after all the ridiculous shit they've been contracted to fight, a dragon only seems a little bit crazy.

"Think we should do it?" Bull asks. The huge grin on his face gives away his response.

Eris glances at Krem, but he just shrugs. "It'd be pretty badass," he admits.

The dragon lets out a roar that makes Eris clap her hands to her ears in an effort to mitigate the painful volume. She looks pleadingly at Bull, but he either doesn't notice or is ignoring her in his own excitement.

"Fuck," Krem murmurs softly. Eris reads the word on his lips more than hearing it. He glances up at the sky, as the dragon moves more quickly than its huge bulk should allow. There will be no outrunning it.

Bull only laughs, wrapping his two hands more tightly around the handle of his battleaxe. He raises the weapon toward the sky, laughing and shouting. "Come here, fucker!" he yells at the beast. The dragon banks and begins a sharp dive, appearing to respond to the challenge.

Eris cringes, instinctively scrambling for cover, but there isn't much of it here in the open grasslands. Her rapid movement draws the dragon's attention. There is no mistaking the fact that the beast is a predator, large enough to snap any one of them up in its jaws easily. Yellowed eyes, shockingly intelligent, scan between Eris, Bull, and the rest of the Chargers.

Bull lets the fight flood through his blood, pushing him forward toward the giant creature that lands, with little care, on a flat slab of stone slightly higher than the plains on which the Chargers stand.

An arrow flies, with deadly precision, from Grin's bow. It's armor-piercing point burrows itself deep into the scaled flesh of the dragon's front legs. A roar of righteous fury echoes through the air.

Bull glances back, just slightly, and gives his fellow mercenary a nod of appreciation. Then, he charges headlong for the dragon once more. His axe lodges deep into the dragon's front foot, and Bull ducks under the beast's long neck, grabbing his axe with two hands and pulling the weapon out of the deep cut in the flesh.

The dragon kicks at the dirt, scratching and sniffing for its attacker, but Bull is patient, and hidden beneath the dragon's own bulk.

More arrows come from the rest of the Chargers flanking the beast, and Krem dances in close with impossibly precise swordwork.

Eris watches carefully, nervous and waiting. She holds a knife in each hand; tiny sharp claws of her own.

Bull glances back in her direction, not even for long enough to make eye contact, but she feels a wave of reassurance flood through her all the same, and she gives a nod of determination. She ducks under the dragon's huge shadow, drawing closer to its body. The beast's breath is hot and foul, and so close it nearly chokes her. She closes her eyes and sinks her knife into the flexible skin between the dragon's scales. It slides with an ease that surprises her, and she grins. She keeps her fingers clasped tightly around the handle of the knife that is nearly ripped away from her every time the dragon shifts position. The huge animal shivers and snaps at the air, howling in frustration. Finally, it gives up trying to claw at Eris, who is safely protected too close to the dragon's body for it to make contact.

The dragon kicks and pushes off from the ground, its heavy bulk creating a noticeable impression in the rocky soil. The dragon circles low. It's earlier curiosity has turned pure predatory instinct, an aggressive need to defend its life and its territory. Even worse, it seems barely injured, only annoyed.

It lets loose another gout of flame, close enough to lick at Eris' clothes. The searing heat triggers a scream of pain and primal fear. Crystals of ice form a thin layer over her skin, keeping the worst of the damage at bay. Someone grabs her, pulling her out of harm's way, at least for the moment. She kicks and lashes out, trying to scramble free, to run. The ground shakes as the dragon lands again. Each footprint leaves a shallow crater large enough to safely shelter most of the Chargers. Her eyes slowly focus on Dalish, who makes eye contact enough to ensure that Eris is conscious and safe enough to defend herself before running back into the fray.

Bull runs out in front of the dragon's snapping jaws, taunting the beast with his axe. He swings the weapon in a wide arc around his head, smashing the sharp edge of the axe into the dragon's nose. A spray of blood explodes outward, though the beast's tough, armored scales protect it enough that it barely seems to notice the injury. The dragon snorts, exhaling steam and smoke that sizzles like a hot pan on an oven. Bull grunts, taking a step backward and attempting to set himself up for another shot.

A lightning bolt crackles close enough to him that he can smell the lingering scent of it on the air, temporarily stronger than the carnivore stench of the giant dragon. The electricity splashes against the dragon's hide, causing the beast to twitch and scream out in pain. Bull takes advantage of its distraction, attacking viciously with his axe. Blood spurts out from the wound carved into the dragon's leg, thick and nearly black.

"It looks like we're doing some real damage!" Rocky calls.

A crossbow bolt lodges itself deep into one of the dragon's back legs, and Bull grins. If they can keep the beast grounded, it'll be that much easier to finish the fight. One crossbow bolt with hardly be enough, but the Qunari yells and begins to direct everyone to concentrate their attacks on the rear legs. Almost before he's finished giving the command, the dragon growls and begins to run, picking up a surprising amount of speed and nearly trampling the fighters on the ground. It's not the first time Bull has wondered if the beast is intelligent enough to understand his words.

He tracks the dragon's movement, low in the sky, but still leaving a warrior holding a battleaxe frustratingly helpless. He lets Dalish play, watching her teach the dragon with flashes of lightning and explosive bursts of force, a familiar determined smile on her face. He has no idea how the apostate learned her tricks, but he does know that those tricks are very useful indeed.

The dragon circles in for another landing, following its animal instinct to run down its prey for an up-close kill. Bull understands and respects the creature. Fighting it is a fine challenge indeed. He runs toward the beast, aiming, once more, for the rear legs. The dragon scratches, claws, and kicks, but Bull keeps moving, shifting position a few steps after each swing of his axe. The combined focus of all of the Chargers are starting to wear away at the dragon's formidable defenses.

As he takes another swing, Bull feels a momentary pressure rippling close around his skin. He glances at Eris. Her eyes are half-closed in concentration, but he nods, acknowledging that he appreciates the magical protection she provides him. The dragon roars out another burst of flame, and Eris retreats, scrambling for cover. Still, it's growing more and more obvious that the Chargers have the momentum in this fight. They have the advantage of numbers, maneuverability, a diversity of weapons and magic that the dragon cannot match. It takes a long time, but eventually, they wear the beast down.

The adrenaline flood of the fight lasts for long moments even after it ends. But as Bull stares at the dragon's huge corpse, sprawled out on the flattened grasses, he is overwhelmed by the familiar respectful mourning that accompanies the defeat of a worthy opponent. He mumurs a few words in Qunlat, then nods toward the Chargers, letting them take the spoils they deserve. They are giddy at their victory, shouting and cheering.

"Hey Boss," Krem says softly, after he's pulled the Qunari away from the rest of the celebrating group. "Go find your girl."

Bull looks up, expecting to see a teasing glint in Krem's eye, but his second-in-command looks quite serious, maybe even slightly worried. Bull is surprised by the speed with which that uncertainty and worry infects and overwhelms him. He moves quickly into the nearby woods, where Eris has left him an obvious trail leading to whatever hole she's found for herself to hide in. Though it's well into the middle of spring, it's still quite cold under the heavy shadows of the forest. Evergreen branches cluster thickly enough that it seems dark enough to be night already, though back in the clearing where they're setting up their camp, the sun had only just begun setting.

Eris perches on a tangled network of large roots, glancing up to watch Bull as he slows to a halt.

"Thought you'd be happy," he says, leaning against the truck of a stout tree a pace away from her. "That was a hell of a fight."

"I don't like fire," she admits. Bull frowns. He's never seen her as someone who needs protecting, but sometimes he forgets that she's not of the Qun. Fear and uncertainty are more than familiar to her; they're old friends.

"Shit, Eris," Bull whispers. "I didn't know." The words don't sound especially apologetic, but it's not the words that matter. His fingertips pad lightly on her spine. She pulls away, glaring at him; but she doesn't go far. His fingers still trace against her skin. There are burn scars there, the worst of them scattered over her back. He's never asked about them, never needed to. "Halamshiral," he murmurs quietly. It isn't quite a question. He and the Chargers were on the other side of the war when the city burned, but she was there in the thick of it.

She nods, knowing she doesn't have to say anything to confirm what he already knows.

"Fucking nobles," Bull spits. He pulls Eris closer to him, kissing her gently. She lets her eyes flicker over his body, worrying each time he winces in pain. He recognizes her concern, obviously, and he tries to distract her from it the best way he knows how. "Don't worry about me," he insists, after a longer kiss. "I've had a lot worse."

He lets his hand wander over her curves. The distraction technique appears to be working pretty well for both of them. "Here," he murmurs, rooting around for the flask at his belt. "Celebrate with me." He hands her the alcohol before she can protest, and she drinks it without hesitation or fear. A shocked gasp accompanies her attempt to push the flask back toward him. Bull grins, and laughs out loud. "I've been saving that stuff," he admits.

"What is it?"

"Qunari secret. Not in any of the bars you've found yourself."

"It's awful."

"I know. Want some more?"

She nods, slowly. Bull hands her the flask again, and she takes another quick swallow. She lets Bull finish the booze by himself.

* * *

The next day brings them to Haven.

Eris stays close to Bull's side, as much to avoid scrutiny and unanswerable questions as because she enjoys his company. People still give the Qunari a wide berth, and she's grateful for his ability to keep her safe. It only takes a few hours, before Bull has found the one place in the small village that will allow him to relax the way he most enjoys doing. He smiles and squeezes Eris' hand before weaving his way through the surprisingly large crowd gathering around Varric, promising to bring back some drinks for both of them.

The dwarf is sitting atop a table, weaving a story for the benefit of the refugees and farmers' children who have signed up to fight for the Inquisition. He holds their attention, so that they're tracking his every subtle movement and leaning in to hear each change in the pitch of his voice, as he tells the tale of the Hero who saved Ferelden from a Blight that may as well have been a lifetime ago rather than a decade. Somehow, it's hard to remember now that their world felt like it was ending then too, but it didn't.

Leliana leans against a wooden support beam in the dark shadows of the corner of the barn which has been turned into a makeshift tavern, pulled toward the story as though she doesn't know how it ends. Or maybe she's drawn in because she _does_ know. Eris wonders if she wishes she could change it.

The spymaster glances at the elf and beckons her over. Eris finishes her drink and makes her way across the barn. Leliana begins walking, and Eris follows her before she even realizes that she's doing so. By then, it's too late to stop without making it obvious, so she lets Leliana lead her out of the barn and to the Chantry proper. Eris expects to be taken to the spymaster's office, enough that she's startled when Leliana quietly enters the worship space. The silent emptiness of the room creates a sense of reverence that's impossible to ignore. Colored light gathers and bounces off the high ceilings.

Eris hesitates, just slightly, standing far enough away that her actions cannot be interpreted as a hostile refusal to do what she's told. Leliana smiles slightly. "I'm not angry, Eris," she insists. Her voice isn't loud enough to make a dent in the overwhelming quiet. Eris squirms.

"But I -"

"I've read the reports on Adamant. Several reports, from many sources. You did exactly what I asked you to. Got in, got information. Found an ally among the Tevinter contingent, even, and I certainly was not expecting that."

"The Inquisition forces were nearly wiped out. Cullen -"

"Cullen knew it would be a hard fight from the start." Sensing the elven girl's fear, Leliana draws her into a careful hug. Her breath is warm against Eris' neck, and smells of alcohol. The Nightengale kisses Eris softly on the forehead, and looks into her deep brown eyes. "You kept yourself alive," she reminds Eris. "That is all I have ever asked you to do."

Eris nods slowly, agreeing with the spymaster's assessment of the situation because it's easier and safer than fighting it.

"There's someone here who wants to see you," Leliana says calmly. A wooden pew at the front of the church creaks under someone's hesitant movements. Eris squints uncertainly into the shadows, gathering mana into herself, a defensive instinct that has saved her life on more than one occasion.

"Mama?"

Rafe's voice is loud even when he's hesitating, in the way only small children seem to be able to manage. He twitches on the balls of his feet, as though he's fighting his own body's instinct to run to her.

Eris exhales, harmlessly letting go of the power she'd been gathering. She isn't sure whether she runs to her son, or if he overcomes his shyness and runs to her first. It doesn't matter. They find each other in the middle of the wide aisle dividing the room, and Eris wraps the boy up in her arms, overwhelmed by the feeling of holding him again.

He's... grown up, since the last time she saw him. He's gotten taller and leaner, though there is still baby fat visible in his cheeks and around his middle. He watches her with silent wariness. Eris brushes his mop of tangled hair out of his eyes, and takes a few deep, painful breaths. Her eyes sting with unshed tears.

"Oh, my baby," she whispers. Rafe wrenches himself away from her.

"I'm not a _baby_," he insists.

Eris glances helplessly to Leliana. The spymaster hovers at the entrance to the worship space, trying to be invisible. Eris settles back on her heels. The last time she saw her boy he was little more than a toddler, and he'd been sleeping, unaware of her presence.

Now, her son is a skinny, scrawny thing, but fiercely stubborn. He hasn't learned the fear she'd had to learn. "You've gotten so big," Eris whispers. It doesn't seem real, despite the heavy weight of him in her arms. She's never seen a child grow – she hasn't still. She can't resist the instinct to sweep her hands over his body, searching for signs of harm. There is nothing obvious, except for the force with which he pulls away from her. He doesn't know her. She lets him go, her heart breaking once again as he runs to Leliana, seeking comfort from a familiar friend. The human woman smoothes his hair and whispers a few words to him, too softly for Eris to hear, before sending him on his way.

"Why'd you bring him here?" Eris asks angrily. She holds onto the back of a pew with a white-knuckled grip. A tremor of emotions she can't even identify runs through her.

"I didn't want you to say no," her friends replies honestly.

"I wouldn't have," Eris replies instinctively, though Leliana knows her better than that.

"See?" the spymaster says simply.

"You should've left him at the Chantry," Eris insists. "He was safe there." She doesn't look at Leliana. She can't. How can she defend abandoning her own child? She stares at the rough wood of the bench she's holding onto.

Leliana's gentle hand reaches out for hers. Eris can smell her perfume, though it's unusually subtle for an Orlesian blend. "He was," Leliana agrees. There is no blame in her soft voice. Eris looks up, cautiously. Leliana smiles. "The world is changing, my friend. He is safer here."

"Yeah," Eris snorts, a sharp edge of sarcasm riding her words. "How do you know?"

She expects Leliana to say something about the strength of the Inquisition, the number of refugees already gathering under its banners, the victories they've already scored. Instead, the spymaster simply holds Eris' gaze and says softly, "He'll be with his mother."


	13. Chapter 13

Cooking fires scatter across the mountain village and the circles of camps surrounding it, their flickering light brightening the darkness. It hadn't felt like Eris had been inside the Chantry long, yet it had been long enough for daylight to slide into deepening twilight. A faint glow still holds the sky, but that too will fade, well before she has hiked down into the forest of tents and rough shelters where the refugees have set to make their living, under the protection of the Inquisition.

Eris casts a final glance backward toward the Chantry, but Leliana is nowhere to be seen. The spymaster's absence provides as clear a command as any; there is someone who needs the elven spy more than even the Inquisition does, at least for the moment. And Eris will be given no excuse to avoid spending time with her child.

Eris takes her time, walking slowly, gathering her thoughts while keeping alert to the activities of the village of Haven. No one pays her any special attention, but she gives them no reason to. She is dressed simply, and behaves as any elf sent to deliver a message or run an errand probably would. The Inquisition's camp has grown in both size and population in the half-year since the Conclave, enough now to resemble a small city. Yet there is no mistaking its purpose, and everyone here maintains a sort of focused determination on their own contributions to the efforts of Jacob Trevelyan and his bid to save the world. They are too busy with their own work to challenge her, and there is a sort of implied trust among most of the people here, an awareness that they are all on the same side, allied against a far greater threat than any personal arguments that may exist. So even the Chantry loyalists who quietly question the legitimacy of Trevelyan's claims cannot afford to ignore his status. Haven has opened its doors to everyone, so long as those who shelter on this sacred ground do so in peace.

Eris hops the low wall dividing the village proper from the tent city beyond. As she nears the cluster of women in pink robes, most of them round and soft and loud in the way of mothers everywhere, Eris is shocked by how much it seems no different from the rural Chantry where she'd first left her son nearly seven years ago. The shouts and snippets of conversation she hears are mostly in the Orlesian tongue, adding to the effect. She hovers for a moment at the edge of the camp, scanning the assortment of children, ranging in age from squalling babies to adolescent boys who gamble with handmade dice and speak of the Inquisition's soldiers with unconcealed longing and jealousy. She does not see Rafe, but perhaps her son is inside one of the tents, or running elsewhere in the sprawling camps. She does not fear for his safety, knowing that Leliana is certainly keeping quiet tabs on his well-being here just as she did in Orlais.

Eris knows she's being watched. She meets the eyes of a girl, just shy of the full bloom of womanhood, dressed in a similar manner to the Chantry adepts nearby, though without any headdress or insignia that might signal her as being one of them. The girl gives her a smile that appears to be genuine enough, and reaches out a hand, beckoning Eris closer. "Be welcome here, ye who seeks the Maker's light." Her voice is resonant, her casual speech almost a song all on its own. Accompanied by music, she must be talented indeed.

Eris plays with the Chantry amulet around her neck, drawing comfort from it the way she usually does when she is uncertain or nervous. She meets the eyes of the girl who was quite obviously sent out to run interference and discern Eris' intentions. "I'm seeking something other than the Maker's light," the elf says bluntly. The girl frowns.

"You're looking for Rafael." There is a hint of something in her voice, a subtlety Eris' years of spywork makes as obvious as a direct statement. The girl is jealous. Jealous of the mother she will never have, jealous of the orphan boy who was never quite as abandoned as the rest of them. "He's over there," she says, nodding toward a large tent with one flap tied up to provide easy entrance to the space inside. Eris nods her thanks.

Inside the tent, a rough-made bench, low to the ground, takes up most of the space. Rafe sits in the middle of it, holding a book reverently in his lap, his brow furrowed in deep concentration as he tries to make sense of the complex codes of written language. Eris once again feels a swelling warmth inside her at the sight of him: pride, and love. He glances up, frowning uncertainly at her.

"I brought some food," she tells him, holding up a hastily-wrapped parcel. "Are you hungry?"

Rafe nods, setting aside the heavily bound copy of the Chant of Light. Eris smiles.

"This is good," Rafe squeals in happy surprise, after taking a small nibble of the sausage roll Eris has handed him. She smiles.

"Don't they feed you?" she asks lightly, trying to disguise her worry. She's not entirely sure she's successful, and Rafe ignores the question until he's finished off the entire pastry and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

"Are you sad?" he asks carefully. "Here!" He hands her the second sausage roll, but Eris shakes her head and tells him to eat it, later, if he's not hungry now. "You're crying," he announces.

"It's happy crying," Eris murmurs. "I think."

"Oh."

"Shall we go for a walk?" Eris asks softly. She won't admit it, but there is a strong part of him that wants to take him back without question, to remove him from the Chantry's domain and the judgemental eyes of their priests.

"Okay," her little boy replies gamely. Rafe's long and unkempt hair falls into his eyes as he gets to his feed. It doesn't seem to impede his vision much, though. He runs ahead, quickly enough that Eris actually has to work to keep up with him.

When they reach the low barricades surrounding the village, he scrambles easily up onto the rock wall and jumps down again with a flying leap, ignoring the way his mother flinches as she watches him. She follows more cautiously, but Rafe waits for her, slowing down, letting her catch up. He turns back to her, an energetic spin that illuminates his sparkling eyes and gap-toothed grin. "I wanna be a hero," he demands. "Like you."

Eris sighs, wondering what half-true stories he's heard, or invented for himself in the years of her absence. "I'm no hero, Rafe," she tells him honestly. "I'm just a solider."

The boy is undeterred. "Mother Giselle says everyone who works for the Inquisition is a hero. That you save people." Eris stares down at her son, once more not quite believing that he really is hers. That he will not be taken away. "You saved me," Rafe adds, more quietly.

"I thought you liked the Chantry," Eris reminds him, as guilt swirls in her stomach.

"I do, I guess. But I like this better."

The child needs his mother. He missed her, as much or more than she missed him, and all of her attempts to bury that feeling cannot make it disappear. She squeezes his shoulder and tries to get comfortable with having him close to her. "Tell me about the Chantry then," she says softly.

Rafe shrugs. He looks up at her, with wide unblinking eyes. "Did you leave me there because you didn't want me?" he demands.

She can tell by the way he says it that it must be something he's heard, often enough that he's started to believe it. Anger kindles, deep inside of her, and she has to fight down the urge to go scream at Leliana, or whichever other Chantry representative is nearest. Instead, she answers her son's question with strangled words. "Of course not," she insists.

The dull look in his eyes tell her he doesn't quite believe her. And why should he? The only thing he knows about her is that she leaves. Even now, she can't stay. She'll be sent back to Orlais, to buy space and time for the Inquisition, gathering information that will build alliances, or break them.

She ought to quit. She knows that Leliana would let her go. But what would she do instead? The world is ripping itself apart, and Rafe has never been safe with her. He still isn't. "I'm doing the best I can," she pleads.

Rafe doesn't answer, but he lets Eris take his hand. She leads him to a bed inside one of the surviving houses of the original village of Haven, rebuilt by the Inquisition and shared by the scouts and soldiers who cycle in and out of the stronghold for brief periods of rest or to exchange information. The place is empty now, with night having barely fallen and all of the adults out seeking other entertainment. Rafe tires early, in the way of a young child, and though Eris expects him to fight sleep, he crawls onto the soft mattress without protest. He rests with his loose fist only inches away from his fist, something he had done as an infant. Eris sits at the foot of the bed, and contents herself with watching him, afraid an unwelcome touch might break the uncertain comfort he apparently feels in her presence at this moment. She could force him to wake up and talk to her, but his practiced silence, even though it rips her apart, is still easier. Once his breathing deepens, proving true sleep, she slips out of the room and walks to the barn-now-tavern.

Plenty of Bull's Chargers hang around the space, surrounded by a large and joyful complement of Inquisition forces. There's even a bard, talented enough, though prone to excessive verbiage. Maybe it's an attempt to add a touch of class to the place, but Eris finds she misses the drunken carousing and dirty lyrics a soldier's bar is supposed to have.

She stalks up to the bar and plunks down a few coins in exchange for a bottle of vodka. She pours it herself, into a sparkling shotglass.

"It's bad luck to drink alone."

The Tevinter accent still makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up, though she knows she's in no danger from Krem. She swivels around on the bar stool and then nods toward the empty seat to her right, sliding the bottle over to him. He raises it in salute and doesn't bother waiting for a glass. "Boss has been looking for you," he points out. Eris nods, unsurprised.

"I've been busy," she hedges. "I'm not avoiding him."

"No doubt," Krem says, with an easy smile. He returns her bottle of liquor and accepts a mug of ale from the bartender instead. "Might be a long night," he points out with a grin. Eris nods agreement. She tries to relax, but she is keenly aware that she's never had any prolonged conversation with Krem without Bull nearby to make it easier. It's not that she's unable to talk to people, in ordinary circumstances. Making men feel comfortable spending time with her was essential to her livelihood through all her years in Orlais. Krem is different though. It's hard to entirely break all of the old rules of Tevinter, demarcations of status that were just as much a matter of life and death. And Krem just doesn't want to offend anybody as important to his boss as Eris obviously is. It's not that they avoid each other, not intentionally, but Bull's absence highlights the awkward gap between them. "I think he'd want us to be friends," Krem says aloud, after several minutes of contemplating the situation. Eris nods. She's willing to try, and it's easier with the alcohol beginning its predictable effects on her mood. Krem smiles too, and they drink in newly companionable silence.

She's about halfway through the bottle when Bull's laughter rings through the barn. He muscles his way cheerfully through the crowd, lifting his eyebrow in surprise when he sees Eris sitting with Krem. "Any room for me?" he asks, leaning on the bar with enough strength that the wood creaks under his weight.

Krem, who has seen the Qunari attempt a human-sized barstool, simply shakes his head. "I don't think so, Boss."

Bull grunts, and wraps his arm around Eris' waist. "Just as well," he whispers, into her ear. Eris sits up straighter, feeling a tingle of pinprick warmth running up her spine. Bull's body radiates heat, and she shivers, suddenly aware of the cold night.

"Cheater," she mutters. The Qunari chuckles, but does not deny the charge.

"Where've you been?" he asks pointedly, once he's got her alone. The Chargers camp down with the rest of the soldiers, but since Bull has a tent to himself this is not much of a trial. The Qunari begins to strip off Eris' shirt, craving skin to skin contact. Eris lets him do it, and he cradles her smaller body against his equally bare chest.

"There's something I had to take care of," she says, after a moment, which both answers the question and says nothing of any real substance.

"Should I be jealous?" Bull teases. He doesn't feel threatened by whatever she gets up to when they aren't together; he never has and never will. He kisses her, soft and slow, without waiting for an answer to the nonsense question. Eris pulls away from him, though. There's something on her mind. Something important. "You're twitchy," he observes.

Eris doesn't respond, but something shifts in her posture, and Bull knows not to ruin it by asking a direct question. He just waits. Eris rewards him with the information he seeks almost immediately. "It's my son," she says softly. "He's... here."

"Your son," Bull repeats dully. Family matters are a complication he is ill-prepared to confront. He's aware, of course, that she'd carried a child, the evidence of doing so is written on her body. He'd never asked about it; for him, it has never seemed important.

"I wasn't hiding it," Eris demands, although he has never accused her of doing any such thing. He simply shrugs.

"The Qun doesn't make a big deal of parenthood." He looks into her eyes, studying her reaction. "But you're not of the Qun," he reminds her softly. He combs his thick fingers through the waves of her dark hair, feeling her tense up in response to his touch. "You feel guilty," he says aloud. It's an assessment of the situation, not a question. He lets go of her, watching as she sits at the edge of the bed, unable to look at him.

"I didn't do anything wrong," she spits, through clenched teeth.

"You don't have to convince me." He sits down next to her, feeling the mattress sag beneath his considerable weight. "Who's the father?" he finally asks.

"I thought the Qun didn't care about parenthood."

Bull shrugs. "It's important to you."

She almost protests, but she crumbles beneath Bull's unblinking stare; somehow it's even more intimidating with just a single eye. He makes up for the pressuring glare with a gentle touch. His thumb strokes the base of her spine, pulling her closer. Eris lets him cradle her, and she tells him the little bit she knows about her son. The last time she saw him he was barely two years old; now, he is nearing seven.

"That's why you work for Leliana," Bull realizes.

Eris nods. "She takes care of him. Better than I could. And I owe her."

Bull mutters something in Qunlat, and locks his fingers around Eris' wrist. He cradles her chin with his other hand, looking into her eyes. "You don't owe her," he says fiercely.

"Okay," Eris breathes. The force of his belief in her is so strong that it washes away her own uncertainty. She feels stronger when she's with him.

"Can I meet him?" Bull asks, after a moment. Eris nods. There was never any question.


	14. Chapter 14

"Never thought I'd see the day I'd find you playing Tamassran," Bull says smoothly. Krem rolls his eyes, biting back whatever return quip is clearly on the tip of his tongue. It was no truly difficult task for him to keep a child entertained for half an hour because Eris asked him to; he likes her. And the job reminds him fondly of the younger siblings he hasn't seen in years. He glances up at Bull, wondering if his boss is at all nervous about this first meeting with Eris' child. If he is, he shows no sign; not that Krem expected any.

"What's a Tamassran?" Rafe asks.

The boy's dark eyes are just like his mother's, and his mind is just as sharp. The Qunari settles onto the bench just beside the small table in the corner of the barn. The air is dim and smoky, familiar and pleasant to him. To Eris too, he knows. He waves in the general direction of the bar where she stands waiting for their drinks, then returns his attention to the little boy on Krem's lap.

"A Tamassran is someone in charge of all the little Qunari kids," he answers, seeing no reason not to respond to the kid's curiosity. "Made sure we all minded our manners and did our chores."

"Like a mother, but not," Krem says.

"Like a Chantry sister."

Bull chuckles, knowing how his Tama would've despised the comparison. But to Rafe, of course it makes perfect sense. "Like a Chantry sister," he agrees.

Rafe nods. Bull wonders idly how much of that religious order's indoctrination has stuck with the boy. It doesn't bother him, of course, but he wonders what the future will bring. It's obvious, even to a man like him with almost no faith to speak of, that the Chantry as it used to be is crumbling irreversibly now. This isn't the Qun, where children are carefully evaluated and instructed for the role that will fulfill them. But that doesn't mean Bull can't make a few well-informed guesses. Maybe he's more of a Tamassran than he likes to think.

Krem smiles, turning away from the game he's been letting Rafe win, drawing the child's attention toward Eris, who approaches the table, mugs of ale in hand.

Rafe glances nervously between the mother he barely knows and the towering Qunari who meets his hesitant gaze with a single eye and a wide grin. "You're big," the child announces. He can't hide the awe in his voice, and the Iron Bull chuckles appreciatively. Krem doesn't bother to suppress his snicker. Bull shoots his lieutenant a warning glance, but both men are still smiling.

Eris shrugs apologetically. She reaches out for her son, but he twists away from her grip, and she lets him. "Bull is my friend," she says simply.

"Mine too," Krem points out, as he slips away from the table. He has no further part in this, and there are other people he has promised to see. "He'll keep you safe."

"I don't have any friends," Rafe insists.

A flicker of worry dances over Eris' features, and Bull notices immediately.

He settles back against the wall, freeing up some space on the large bench for Rafe to sit, if he wants to. He does his best to seem a bit less scary, hoping that he can gain Rafe's trust. He wants this to go well. "It took me a long time to find any friends worth having," he tells the boy.

Rafe notices the way the Qunari reaches out and takes his mother's hand. Rafe crosses his arms over his chest and sucks on his lower lip. He isn't used to talking to grownups. He isn't used to talking to anybody, really. The adults ignore him unless he's done something they don't like, and the older kids are mean. The little kids are only babies; most of them can't even talk. "Can you teach me how to fight?" he finally blurts out.

Bull glances at Eris, and the fact that he thinks it's a bad idea is clear enough to Rafe. Finally, the Qunari sighs. "When your mother agrees," he says pointedly. "Not before."

"That's not fair!" Rafe demands, stamping his foot. He's never had a mother, not for his whole life, and now that he has one it's just another person to tell him what he can't do.

"I can teach you one thing right now," Bull offers. "Fighters? They only fight when they have to."

"But if somebody fights you, you have to know how to fight them, right?" This is obviously very important to him. Eris hovers, watching. Desperately grasping every detail of everything Rafe says and doesn't say.

"You do," Bull concedes. He leans in close to the boy, nodding his head. His heavy horns are nearly parallel to the ground, and it takes care not to accidentally spear Rafe. It's hard to make eye contact with someone as small as a human child. "But not all fighting is with your fists, or with weapons." Rafe takes a step back, and Bull glances up at Eris quickly, taking advantage of the space the boy offers. "Sometimes it's about listening. Watching. Finding weakness in their defenses. Confusing them. Doing something that they don't expect."

Eris shakes her head. "He's not like us, Bull!" she snaps. "I don't want..." She trails off before she finishes the sentence. She doesn't want her child's life to be fucked up by hers. That has always been the point.

But Rafe is listening, and he doesn't know enough to fill in the things she doesn't say. All he hears is that she doesn't want him.

He runs away, with the speed and fury of youth. Eris doesn't go after him. Bull could catch him, but he stays with her instead, wrapping her up in his arms. Neither of them are concerned about Rafe's physical safety; Haven remains true to its name, the people here protect each other.

"You're quiet," he observes, after several long moments when she's said nothing at all, giving her no indication of her thoughts. It's a short sentence that manages to convey all kinds of concern. He wishes he could help her, but with this, he is just as unprepared as she is. Probably even more so.

Eris sighs, wishing more than ever that Bull could give her an order. Always before, he has been the one that makes it easy for her to know what she is supposed to do, when she is spinning out and needs direction. His simple certainty has always made her feel safe. He won't let her fuck up. "What am I supposed to say to him?" she asks softly.

"Tell him the truth," the Qunari suggests. "Where you come from. Why you left."

"How can I?"

"You told me," he reminds her. Slowly, in fits and starts, but Eris usually doesn't lie once she feels comfortable enough to talk.

"You're a mercenary, not a six-year-old child. And besides, you knew before I told you."

He chuckles, that familiar grin spreading across his face. "He can't be that fragile," he muses. "He's yours. Start simple, but tell him the truth."

Eris nods, then glares at Bull, comprehension dawning. "This is just another one of your tricks to get me to talk, isn't it?" she asks, only half-teasing.

Bull squeezes her shoulder, kneading away the tension there. Does she have any idea how much energy she exhausts each day keeping up walls? "Like you said," he murmurs. "I knew before you told me." He leaves it at that, he will never force her to do anything she doesn't want to do. But he can tell by the shift her muscles that she's already given up this fight. "Come on," he says. "Let me buy you something to drink. Tomorrow is another day. You'll try again."

She nods, and lets him lead her. Tomorrow comes sooner than she'd wanted.

Eris barely sleeps that night, and the morning finds her pacing the worn paths of the village. The rising sun tints the clear sky, and she finds herself scanning for a jagged green gash in that horizon, still. It surprises her how quickly she'd adjusted to its presence, how she has to remind herself now each time she does not see it that it was never supposed to be there at all.

Eris has discovered that the people of Haven generally have one of two opposite responses to the recent, apparently successful, closing of the Breach. They either stare at the sky looking for something that is no longer there, or they pointedly _avoid_ looking at the sky, as though fearing that calling attention to the space will reveal a temporary illusion of normalcy that can be wiped away as easily now as it was at the original Conclave.

The bald elven man pacing the small patch of ground just below where the Breach used to be displays neither of these common reactions. He murmurs a few soft words to himself, in the Dalish language Eris has never learned. She stops a few paces away from him, curious but unwilling to intrude. He radiates the confident power that comes from being able to command a great deal of magic. She hasn't seen anyone with such a demeanor anywhere outside of Tevinter, and there she had learned to avoid such men whenever possible.

"Join me," Solas says simply. It is an invitation phrased as a command, yet Eris responds to it. "A remarkable thing," the older elf announces. He speaks to the sky, though he has obviously switched to the common tongue for her benefit.

"The Breach?" Eris asks, uncertain what specifically he's talking about. The man nods.

"Trevelyan's gamble does appear to have succeeded. Yet I am unsettled, still. There may be consequences to this act, for which we are unprepared." He studies her, with piercing gray eyes that do not appear to blink. "Do you not feel the... wound?" He appears genuinely curious, perhaps even worried. He frowns, as he fumbles for a mundane word that can describe everything that is wrong with the Fade, here in this place.

Eris stares at Solas, casting about for some hint of the danger he obviously feels. But after a moment, all she can do is shake her head. "I don't feel anything," she admits.

Solas sighs, a mournful sound. He stares into the distance. "That is what I fear."

A cold shadow seems to pass over Eris as she stands there looking into the empty sky. Closing the Breach is a _good _thing, and she tells the other man so. He only shakes his head, as though she's missing something obvious and important that's right in front of her. The stirring of activity around the camp as the day begins in earnest seems to frighten Solas back into the private study where he spends most of his time. Eris feels no need to chase after him. She sets aside their encounter as an odd, random interaction, nothing more or less concerning than that.

Bull finds her for just long enough to tell her that he, along with most of the Chargers, will set out for the Storm Coast with Trevelyan in an attempt to secure the Inquisition an alliance with the Qunari. She suddenly appreciates his desperate ferocity in bed the previous night with new clarity. It's not the kind of thing that should upset her, but it grates on her, being left behind.

At Leliana's urging, she takes a private room within the Chantry proper. Arrangements are made for her to share the space with Rafe. A second bed is brought in, and space is cleared for the personal belongings that neither she nor her son possess. Everyone seems to expect that she'll know what to do with him, how to be a mother. But she doesn't.

Rafe spends most of his time running wild through the camp, getting into mischief. Every now and then, though, he clings to her, as though afraid to let her out of his sight. He fires non-stop questions at her, not even stopping to wait for the answers she isn't sure how to give. She tells herself she loves him, but his incessant chatter and whining and neediness dig into her brain like sharp needles. He won't sleep. He refuses to eat when she puts food in front of him, and cries when she tries to take the plate away. He bounces up and down on her bed and picks up everything, carelessly, without asking for permission and without even seeming to care whether the belongings are hers or someone elses, if they are important or not.

A sudden crash of glass shocks them both. Tears well up in Rafe's eyes as one of the sharp shards slices open his finger. Red blood spills into his hand, onto the floor.

Eris looks from his tear-streaked face to the broken vase on the floor. "I thought I told you to leave that stuff alone!" She grabs his arm, pulling his hurt hand toward her face, trying to get a look at the injury. Her fingers dig into the child's soft skin, and he cries without restraint.

"I didn't do anything!" he yells, stamping his feet. His fists clench in futile anger, and his bald-faced lie only infuriates Eris further. She slaps him, hard. The red imprint lingers even on Rafe's sun-darkened skin. The impact of the blow sends him staggering, but Eris' grip on his arm stops him from falling.

"I hate you!" he yells, lashing out to kick her. His foot connects with her leg, hard enough to hurt. Eris lets go of him, and slams her fist into the wall instead. Tears are falling from both of their eyes now as their wild and directionless fury rapidly dissolves into its component pieces: guilt, and fear. Her stomach constricts into a tight ball. She wants to take it back. She wants to apologize, or explain. But how can she? There is too much hurt. It's easier to simply let him hate her.

He lingers though, pulled close to her by some need he can't articulate. He's still crying, though softly, almost silently. He watches her, pleading desperately for some kind of absolution. He doesn't want to go back to the Chantry, just another unwanted knife-ear's brat.

The look on his face makes Eris remember things she wishes she didn't - a long time ago, a world away. "I'm sorry, Mama!" Rafe cries. "I didn't mean to!" The fragments of shattered glass still litter the ground beneath them.

"Pick it up," Eris growls. She's not angry at the broken object, not really. She's angry at him for bringing up the past she can't afford to remember. The earliest memories she has are of painful warnings to shut up and do as she's told.

Rafe does as he's bid, dejected and beaten. "I'm sorry," he whispers again, as he dumps the slivers of glass into a nearby pot. He doesn't look at her, and as soon as the last of the pieces have been picked up, he runs away, slamming the door behind him.

Eris tells herself he's better off without her. But the next morning, she cannot stay away. She goes looking for him, knowing she doesn't deserve her claim on him but unwilling to give him up. It is a fight she has never stopped having with herself.

She's on guard, waiting for the Chantry priests to treat her with the same passive-aggressive hosility she remembers from visiting Rafe in Orlais, years ago, when he was too young to remember her and she could leave again without fighting nearly overwhelming guilt. She'd thought that was the worst he could ever make her feel, but having him close is just as dangerous.

Preparing for a fight gives her some sense of control, though it collapses like sand in the face of Mother Giselle's calm faith. The woman defers to the will of the Maker in a way that Eris can't even comprehend. She looks at Eris with obvious disappointment, yet she does not lauch into a lecture nor attempt to remind Eris of her sins or induce any more guilt than the elven scout already feels. Far from making Eris feel relieved, it only confuses her. She doesn't physically squirm, but inside, she feels like a child again, afraid to overstep unspoken rules without understanding the consequences.

"You are looking for your son, I take it?" Giselle asks softly. Eris doesn't reply – it hardly seems necessary. She simply nods, keeping her head bowed and her eyes down. Somehow she's not shocked to find him here, in the chapel where the only caretakers he's ever known have taught him to find comfort. "Look at me, child. We are all of us equal in the sight of the Maker."

"I'm not your child!" Eris spits, without thinking.

The smile she gets in return is warm and genuine, shockingly so. But it doesn't mean Giselle approves of Eris' words, or her behavior. Still, she gains nothing from keeping a mother from her son. It's not her place. She nods toward the statue of Andraste, where Rafe plays with a few small candle stubs, hidden in the shadows.

Eris steps silently into the chapel, more uncertain now than ever. When Rafe looks up, it's with a sullen glare. The mark left behind by her hit is still visible.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. It goes against everything she's ever learned – apologizing takes away any power she's managed to gather for herself. But these aren't the streets of Minrathous, or Halamshiral, and the only threat she's really afraid of is one that only she is capable of diffusing. She has to let Rafe see her as vulnerable. Bull is right; she has to tell him the truth.

Rafe says nothing, and his quietness disturbs Eris. Her silence reminds her too much of herself, of the life she never wanted him to have. He glances toward the sunlight streaming in through the colored windows, and moves closer to it almost unconsciously. But he doesn't run from her, even though she'd let him if he wanted to. He may not realize it, but there is something in him that is caught between safety and desire, and Eris suddenly can't let him go. He belongs to her because he comes from her.

She reaches up, playing with the Chantry amulet he'd given her when he was just a toddler, still dangling from it's worn cord around her neck. He smiles when he sees it, and scrambles closer to her. Even when he's cautious and hesitant, he moves with sudden motion; no child can stay guarded for long. It comforts Eris that Rafe doesn't think he has to. "You should have it back," she tells him, slipping the necklace into his hand. "I don't need it anymore."

"Are you gonna send me back?"

"I thought you hated me," she points out softly. He'd said it, hadn't he? He must've meant it, at least a part of him. And it would make things easier for both of them if they could just confirm that this experiment in parenthood isn't working.

But Rafe only shrugs, neither arguing nor confirming his earlier accusation. Instead, he simply sits there in the silence, working through complex concepts, and the reality of the world. "I don't hate you," he finally says, as simple as that.

Eris sighs. "Rafe, when I was your age... breaking something the way you did, even by accident... I got hurt. And I hurt you when you did something wrong because... I don't know. It seemed like something that was supposed to happen."

"Kids get the cane all the time at the Chantry. I don't hate you," he repeats. It's the closest he's come to telling her anything at all about the day-to-day reality of how he grew up, and though it's nothing that surprises her, she still feels an involuntary instinct to protect him, to somehow find a way to undo all the damage that's already been done.

She plays with his hair, its brown color just a shade lighter than hers, falling into his eyes, unkempt and beginning to curl at the ends. She ought to cut it. Instead, for now, she tucks a few of the longer strands behind his ear, and studies his face. "I'm not going to send you back," she promises. "But I can't stay here forever."

"You could if you wanted to," he demands stubbornly. The simple certainty of his statement freezes her. _You could if you wanted to. _Could she? Does she _want _to?

Rafe holds her gaze, demanding an explanation. She owes him at least that much. She owes him so much more.

"I could," she finally admits. "But I can do things out there that I can't do here. People are counting on me." She prays desperately, as she says it, that she is right. That she can still serve some sort of purpose, that she will not forever be stuck here, aimless and uncertain.

"You mean like fight?" Rafe asks, leaning his head back to stare up at her. "Like the Chargers?"

"Not exactly like the Chargers. But yes... the Inquistion... it needs fighters. Soldiers who can protect people. I won't abandon them."

"That's what Krem said you'd say. He likes you, Mama."

"He's a good friend. I'm glad he's looking out for you."

"He said I have to show you how to be a good mama, because you didn't have anybody to teach you. And it's not your fault, but that's just what it's like where you're from."

Eris' breath catches in her throat. _Where you're from_. She sighs. There's no shaking Tevinter, not for either of them. She makes a note to buy Krem a drink. Probably several drinks. She owes him. "Krem's a smart man," she tells Rafe, as she kisses the top of his head. He squirms away from her hold, feeling safe enough now to react in the way that a six-year-old boy ought to. He scrambles up to the base of the statue of Andraste, heedless of danger or any fear of reprimand. And Eris lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. His simple joy is radiant, and she lets it wash over her.

"I'm gonna be baptized, Mama!" he announces. He leans his head back to stare up into the smooth marble face of the statue looming high above him. "That's good, right?" His brow furrows as he tracks her movement, seeking her approval.

She nods. It's good. Of course it is. The pride on his face alone is worth it. So why does it feel like just another trick the Chantry will use to keep him away from her?

She schools her features, keeping her conflicted feelings buried deep. "I just want you to be happy," she tells him honestly. And there are other truths as well, hopes for him that come from others. "The Chantry is changing," she says carefully, uncertain of how much he knows, unwilling to frighten him. "Leliana once told me that she hoped you would be among the many who could make it something better than it is now."

It's a heavy weight to lay on a young child, but Rafe seems to glow under that vote of confidence. "I will," he announces, jumping down from the statue. "I'm smart," he tells her. "And Krem says I can be a soldier just like him."

"You can be whatever you want."

The simplicity of the reply, something that had just slipped out without her thinking clearly enough to censor it, shocks her. A twinge of jealousy makes her ashamed of herself. She has given up almost everything to give him that opportunity. And she'd do it again, even knowing how difficult it would be. She fights to strangle down a memory, her mother's fierce whispers and rough, callused hands, holding too tightly in the dark. Had her mother done that too – had she pushed her child away to save her? Tears sting Eris' eyes sharply before she can stop them from forming. What would her mother think of her now? Would she be proud, or disappointed?

"Why're you crying, Mama?" Rafe asks. He tugs urgently at her hand. She doesn't know how to answer him. "Are you sad?"

She finally nods. "I'm just remembering some bad things that happened a long time ago."

"Oh." Her tears seem to subdue him.

Eris shakes her head, and smiles down at him. "Come on," she insists. "Let's go for a walk. We can do whatever you want."


	15. Chapter 15

Haven without the Inquisitor is a restless place. People pace about, feeling adrift, wanting to be helpful, wanting to be _elsewhere_. To hide in this simple village feels too much like a cowardly act, when the rest of the world is burning.

Eris is not immune to the feeling. It's not that there is a shortage of things to do, but after the battlefields and the dangers of hiding in plain sight across enemy lines, the simple daily needs of Haven lack immediacy. She drinks with a few of the other scouts, helps wash things, runs errands for Leliana. In between these things, she continues trying to be a mother.

Rafe spends his mornings studying with the Chantry refugees he'd grown up with, but he looks for any excuse to leave them behind. The priests blame Eris for his disobedience, they seem to have an exasperated lecture prepared whenever they can catch her. Eris listens to the rants but ignores them. She does not fear the Chantry.

She murmurs something neutral, but pleasant enough, and promises she'll encourage her son to pay attention to his lessons. Giselle rolls her eyes, but seems to trust Eris do do what she says she will. It's a start.

Eris keeps her word and goes looking for Rafe, but he isn't any of the places she'd expect him to be. She's torn between being worried and being angry at herself for not being able to find him. She slows down in the hall of the Chantry where people tend to congregate, wondering if she ought to go out into the camps again; Rafe often enjoys watching the soldiers train in the practice rings that have been set up at the edge of the village. But she's been past those, two or three times, and hadn't seen him there.

She decides to check the kitchens, wishing she knew him better. He's her son, she should know things about him, know where he would go... The fact that she doesn't floods her with a disturbing amount of guilt.

The sound of his laughter makes her pause.

She isn't _sure _it's him, it could be any child. But the small library tucked into a shadowed corner of Haven's Chantry doesn't seem a likely place for too many children. One glimpse into the open doorway confirms it: Rafe is here, giggling and gasping as Dorian juggles illusions of birds and monkeys that disappear into wisps of colored smoke as easily as they blink into existence.

Small mountains of books are spread out across the desk, but Dorian sits atop it, grinning nearly as broadly as Rafe, clearly glad for a chance at a distraction, and an excuse to show off.

Eris hesitates. Watching her son laughing easily with an Altus ignites a surprisingly strong surge of jealousy inside her. She stops herself from running into the library and snatching Rafe away, but the laughter stops as soon as she steps into the room. Rafe bites his lip, squirming as though afraid to get into trouble, and even Dorian seems a little more subdued. "Rafe," Eris says, somewhat more sharply than she intended. She keeps her eyes on her son, pretending, as much as she can, that the other Tevinter isn't even here. "Leave Master Pavus alone."

"It's alright," Dorian insists. "He can stay."

Eris shakes her head. "No he can't." She reaches out and takes Rafe's hand, ready to lead him out of the room. Rafe frowns, but he shrugs, and goes to her. A simple victory, that; Eris murmurs a silent thank you that he isn't making this a fight.

"Wait," Dorian says. His voice is not loud, but there is no escaping the weight of command in the simple word; Dorian is a man used to being listened to. Even Rafe seems to sense it. He stills, tucking himself closer into Eris' body. His fingers brush one of the books nearly teetering off the edge of the desk, but he instantly yanks them back and sticks them in his pocket, chastened. He glances at Eris, but she doesn't even seem to see him. Dorian sighs. "Please?" he adds cautiously. "I'd like to talk."

Eris relaxes only fractionally.

Dorian walks out from behind the desk, gathering a thick sheaf of parchments as he does so. Eris frowns as she recognizes the scrawled characters of written Tevene, rarely seen in the Southlands. It doesn't at all surprise her, not in Dorian's hands, but even without taking the time to slowly decipher the script, she knows whatever is written there bodes ill. "These are some of the communications intercepted from the Venatori," Dorian confirms.

"Leliana -"

"Can't read Tevene. She asked me to help."

"So what does it say?" Eris pushes Rafe gently away from her, untangling his clinging limbs from her leg. He hovers close, more afraid of the unfamiliar mage than he is of her. Eris notes that, and is surprised to notice how powerfully she feels the need to protect him. Even here.

Dorian too glances at the child, but quickly seems to reconsider any attempt to kick the boy out of the room. He runs his thumb over the coded notes he's spent the last hours trying to decipher, before focusing again on Eris. "They're trying to resurrect one of the Old Gods."

Eris can't help it. She laughs aloud. It just seems so ridiculously malicious, the kind of tales the Southrons tell to warn their children about the evils of Tevinter. No one with a lick of sense could actually believe it to be true.

But Dorian smiles grimly. "Normally, I'd join you in your laughter, but..." he holds out the paper, seeming to highlight a point that Eris can't see quickly enough to satisfy him. She keeps her eyes on his face, reading his expression. She doesn't need written evidence to prove he's worried.

"That's what they were doing at Adamant," she whispers, and suddenly it no longer seems impossible; it only seems terrifying. The familiar claustrophobic sense of threat squeezes around her heart, and somehow she can feel the heat of her blood flowing through her skin. There is power in that blood, if you spill enough of it. Dorian nods. "And the Breach, too, Eris continues. "If they rip enough holes in the world..."

"Then they can bring something through. The glory of Old Tevinter."

The first of the magisters, the original bloodlines, wielded unimaginable power before they were trapped and warped on the other side of the Veil. But the Veil is fragile now.

"How do we stop them?"

Dorian sighs, wishing he knew. He's no battle commander. "Go tell Cullen. Leliana. Anyone who'll listen to you."

"But -"

"They don't trust me, remember? Not really. It'll go better coming from you."

"They won't _believe _me."

"Of course they will. And anyway, you just need to warn them, get them started on a plan. The Inquisitor will be back soon enough and he won't care where the information comes from."

"What are you going to do?"

Dorian glances over at the piles of books and papers littering the desk. "Look for information," he says simply. "Anything we can use."

Rafe tugs at Eris' hand, and she flinches. She'd forgotten he was there. She glances down, and he stares at her, mouth open, confused and curious. She is certain he cannot understand the details of the conversation he's just witnessed, but he is perceptive enough to realize its gravity. "I heard him," Rafe says. His voice isn't quite loud, yet it seems so as it breaks through the heavy silence in the room. "He said tell Cullen." Eris nods, barely listening. "Come on, then," Rafe insists, still clutching her hand. He pulls her forward, out into the brightness of the bustling camp. Eris blinks a few times, letting her eyes adjust to the change in the light, clearing her head. She looks down at her son.

"You know where the Commander is?" she finally asks, uncertainly.

Rafe nods, a smile lighting up his face. "Cullen's my friend."

The former templar isn't hard to find, and it isn't surprising that he seems to drift toward the sections of the camp that the Chantry claims. He doesn't belong to them anymore, but his faith is still strong, and important. Rafe scrambles over the low stone fences and bounds through the trampled grass toward Cullen's tent. The Commander, wrapped in his fur shawl despite the negligible chill, stands with his back toward the open flaps of the entrance, leaning over a map on a table. He shifts position noticeably enough that Eris knows he must be reacting to their presence, but he turns around and smiles when he sees Rafe. He ruffles the boy's hair, then scans Eris more critically. He knows little about her except that she works for Leliana, and therefore is adept at sneaking about and knowing more than she should. Spies and scouts are necessary in any war, but they grate against someone who has been raised since childhood to believe in the virtues of honesty and honor.

Eris hovers uncertainly, trying to figure out how best to word the message she has come here to deliver. She spends little time with the rest of the Inquisition's soldiers, and when she does, it's often with the low-ranking men who whisper and joke about the man in front of her. Some of the things she's heard are enough to make her blush, others make her worried.

Cullen stares at her, a deep line forming between his eyebrows as he frowns. "What is it?" he asks sharply.

Eris opens her mouth to begin speaking, but before she can say a word, loud trumpet blasts and unintelligible shouts interrupt, a bubble of sound pushing in chaotically from outside the tent.

Cullen shrugs it off, at first, used to being surrounded by an army's constant practices and false alarms. He nods at Eris, intending for her to continue, but then the Chantry bell picks up the call, ringing wildly in alarm. There is a panicked shout, the pounding feet of a teenage boy, a runner from the ring of scouts set up around the outer camps. "Someone's coming!" he cries, gasping for breath. He seems barely able to stand. "A whole army!"

"Whose banners?" Cullen asks immediately.

"None."

Eris frowns. _None? _The Inquisition is not short of enemies, yet a force of this size must declare some loyalty surely. She moves quickly, pushing out of the tent and squinting into the distance, trying to gather some information, read some hint or clue the scouts may have missed. There's nothing. A distant army, too numerous to count. There is an unexplainable high-pitched ringing at the edges of her perception, above the mundane sounds of thousands of men on the march, the drums of war, the chaotic howls and cheers as the attackers taunt, pressing forward. An eerie red glow reflects from the mass of moving bodies. People run past her, panicked but managing to pull on armor or find weapons all the same.

The village of Haven is pressed back against a mountain. There is nowhere to run, not with so little warning. There is no time.

Cullen catches Eris' eye briefly before he runs off, shouting orders. Eris grabs Rafe's hand and follows the refugees and noncombatants who seek shelter behind the Chantry's thick walls.

Ballista bolts and siege weapons tear into their camps. Haven had never been fortified, it was never meant to stand against a serious assault. Worse still, magic crackles and washes over the makeshift barricades, storms of fire and electricity that cannot be stopped by the already too-fragile physical protections surrounding the village.

One of the fireballs lands only a couple of paces next to Eris, sending up a spray of dust and dirt and exploding a wave of heat and flames outward. The crackling fire is too much. The smoke is thick and heavy in the air, stinging painfully no matter how much Eris squints to try to see through it. The world is a loud, chaotic mess of shouted orders and panicked screams. "Mama!" Rafe cries. His high-pitched wails rip at her, and she falls to her knees, struggling to crawl, to get closer to him. She coughs and pushes through the blackness. Her fingers lock around Rafe's. Somehow, the two of them move forward.

She cannot remember when she loses him. At some point in her desperate run, his fingers slip from hers, and she doesn't notice until she has already reached the doors of the Chantry and heard them slam closed behind her as a girl in novice robes yells and waves to guide her in with the rest of the jostling crowd.

The fear washes over her, sudden and constricting, only when she hears the cry of an infant somewhere across the room. She begins to search, frantically, for Rafe, crying out his name, asking everyone she passes if they've seen him. For the most part, the people ignore her. There is too much fear to go around. They can still hear the fighting outside, the yells and explosions.

Then come the whispered rumors of a way out, a hidden winding path through the mountains. It will be dangerous, but far less dangerous than staying where they are. Eris lets herself be guided along with the rest. Her fingers lock around the Chantry amulet hanging between her breasts. One of the priests smiles reassuringly at her, and thanks her gently for her prayers.

The people of Haven need leadership, and some – more than she will ever be comfortable with – look to Eris, aware that she has had direct contact with the Inquisitor and his inner circle. Most of those remained behind at Haven to fight, but Solas and Varric travel with the refugees who seek a safe passage through the rocky tunnels they can only hope will lead to some better place where they can rebuild.

"Cheer up," Varric tells Eris, grinning as he walks alongside her through the dark and twisting pathways. Eris shoots him a poisonous glare. "No one blames you, you know. No one expected you to stay behind."

Eris says nothing, but it unsettles her that he seems so easily capable of reading the general direction of her thoughts. She's usually better at hiding her emotions. "I left him," she insists. Her voice is soft enough that no one other than the dwarf can pick out her individual words in the general murmur of voices and the shuffling of a large group of people on the move. Somehow even carefully restrained, the words break into a cry. "I lost him." The guilt is unbearable, producing a physical sting that she opens herself to feel more of. She is unaware of the mana swirling around her as she repeats her baby's name.

Varric stares at her, open-mouthed, for a few long seconds before he swats at her arm, apparently unable to get her attention any other way. "The Little Bit? He's fine. Running aroun' with some o' them Chantry kids ahead." He frowns at her. "You didn't know?"

Eris shakes her head slowly, as if moving through a fog. Her heart pounds heavily in her chest and she begins to run. Rafe sees her first. "Mama!" he yells, and he breaks away from the group of Chantry refugees, most of them older children and teenagers. He runs into her arms, and Eris sweeps him up and holds him easily, despite his weight. He does not argue against being carried. "I was so scared, Mama," he whispers. Eris nods, still too choked up to answer. She strokes his hair, and whispers promises that she will never leave him behind. Never again.

When the light of the sun becomes visible at the end of their path, Rafe squirms out of Eris' arms, insisting on walking on his own. Eris sets him down and begins to stretch, overtired muscles. Her heart skips a beat at his every movement; she barely blinks for fear of letting him out of her sight.

The brightness of the snow-covered peaks is blinding after their time in the tunnels, and the cold winds whip mercilessly at bare skin. The refugees of Haven huddle together, stumbling over the rocky mountain paths. They do not have enough of _anything_ to survive up here, not enough clothing, not enough food. The contingent of mages led by Mira Hawke, most of them only a few years past childhood, work together to create flickering warmth and barriers that will protect them from the worst of the dangers, but the forces of nature rule here, and they can only hope to hold such power at bay for a short time. The people pace and shuffle uncomfortably, murmuring and afraid.

"There is a fortress, high in the mountains," Solas announces. His voice, magically amplified, echoes through the peaks. "Long abandoned, but strong. The Place Where The Sky Is Held Back. Or so it was called by the ancient elves. I know the way. Keep heart. We will be accepted there."

Dark falls early in the mountains, and as night falls, the winds pick up, stirring a blizzard into existence. Some of the people mutter about being cursed, or punished by the Maker.

Solas increases the pace, unable to accept their useless protests.

Varric struggles to keep up with him, almost runs to be able to do so. He has found himself taking on the job of speaking for these people. He tries to tell himself that at least it might make a good story. "Don't be an idiot," Varric grumbles, to Solas' back. "We can't continue in these conditions."

"If we stay here, we will surely perish," the elf retorts.

"Can you even _see_?!"

In answer, Solas raises his staff, casting a luminescent glow over the drifting snows. He takes exaggerated steps through the calf-deep drifts, and murmurs to himself in Elven. Varric heaves a deep sigh, and follows, grumbling and cursing all the while.

The trek continues through the dark of night, but none of them dare stop. Up here, if any stop moving they are likely never to start again. Eris urges Rafe to stay awake, and weaves her subtle magic through him, building up his stamina. She can hear his teeth chattering, and his skin turns disturbingly pale, nearly blue. The people walk in subdued silence. Skyhold, when it appears, seems almost like a hallucination.

The stone fortress is empty and crumbling, but it shelters them from the worst of the winds. They gather in the main hall and sleep on the floor. Solas disappears early on, finding a kind of office hidden in a stairwell. No one goes after him. Eris sleeps with Rafe in her arms.

In the morning, the Chantry priests hold a service to praise the Maker and give thanks for their lives.

It's Varric who decides to fly the banner of the Inquisition from the fortress's walls. They begin the process of rebuilding, again. And they wait for word from Haven, send word to Trevelyan, and to their allies in Orlais. No one dares ask what's become of the people they left behind; even of the ones already in Skyhold, too many are wounded. The trek across the frozen mountains sapped too much of their strength.

Rafe still goes exploring, but more cautiously now. There are a thousand empty rooms in this place, and the grownups are too busy to go looking through them. They stay huddled together, setting up a chapel near an ancient statue of Andraste, and a makeshift hospital not far from there. The cries of the people who had been hurt at Haven mingle with the prayers.

"I don't like it here," Rafe insists. "All these people are hurting."

"They're dying," Cole corrects. The truth does not appear to make the younger boy more comfortable.

Rafe glances at Cole uncertainly. He is unable to make eye contact with the spirit, or track exactly where he is beyond a general sense of his presence. But he doesn't move like people do; he shifts, somehow, when Rafe isn't looking, in ways that shouldn't be possible. It makes the child wary, but he won't admit how afraid he really is.

He presses his belly flat against the stone wall above the frozen courtyard. Grown men cry for their mothers, and too often no one even bothers checking up on them. There are not enough helpers for all of the wounded. Rafe has noticed that many of the sick people have black marks drawn on their foreheads.

"Missing mama. All alone in the dark. Not a baby, shouldn't cry. Hurt cold scared. Throat dry and cracked. Thirsty but afraid to move. I can hear you."

"It's just nightmares," Rafe mutters sullenly.

Cole shrugs. "Sometimes nightmares are real."

"Go away!" Rafe demands. His childlike yell is quickly swallowed by the moans and screams all around them. But when he looks up, there's no one around but the Chantry people. One of them comes over to him, takes his hand.

"This is no place for a little boy," she demands. "Come on. Let's get you somewhere safe."


	16. Chapter 16

"Mama! Mama!"

Rafe's joyful shouts and the patter of his boots running across the ancient stone brings attention. Some of the soldiers bunking on cots in the main hall along with Eris mutter and growl at the little boy, believing he has no place here, but most smile, glad to have a reminder of the reasons for their fight. Most of them have left families of their own behind, many more have lost children in the devestation of recent years. Their grief is constant and easily recognizable, though few of them acknowledge it aloud unless thoroughly drunk.

"Shh," Eris hisses, glaring at her son, trying to instill in him some sense of caution. He reacts to her mood, hesitating just out of her reach. But there's no curbing his excitement, and his smile fades only a little.

"They're here!" he squeals, forgetting to be afraid and pulling on Eris' hand. "The Inquisitor and everybody! Come _on_, Mama!"

The child's announcement sends the room into a stir of activity, and one of the men closest to the doors pushes them open with great force. The cold mountain air immediately floods the room, and clean blasts of trumpets can be heard echoing from the fortress gates.

Rafe leads Eris through a narrow hall that weaves through the gardens, and steers them up and over the crumbling battlements with surprising dexterity. After a while, he no longer seems to fear that she won't follow, and he runs ahead.

Eris' stomach does a little flip when she sees the Inquisitor and the sizable scouting party he'd taken with him to the Storm Coast. The Chargers are there, loud and cheerful as always, and looking around Skyhold with great interest. She's heard nothing from them in the month that that they've been gone, and if Leliana had received any information, she hadn't shared it. The silence shouldn't unsettle Eris, but she worries all the same. Bull sits close behind Jacob, looking serious, scanning their surroundings with a critical eye. He catches Eris' gaze and gives her a slight nod.

Jacob looks dazed, almost like he did just after the Breach. Josephine runs to him, aware of the crowd watching, but dispensing with propriety just long enough for this. She gathers him in a desperate hug, and soon begins smoothing his hair. He bats her away absently, but she ignores the token protest, and eventually settles in by his side.

The Inquisitor's forces have been hard at work, building Skyhold into something they can use. They clear out old rooms, battle the animals that have nested in this place, begin digging out a road down the mountain. But Eris wonders just how much they've lost, trapped up here in the mountains. Out of contact with everyone, with an unknown enemy storming across Ferelden at least, if not the rest of the world as well. She glances at Rafe, and takes his hand again. He looks up at her, surprised, but he smiles. His presence grounds her, reminds her that as much as she needs to return to the people and places she used to live among, he needs her too. She will not hide from the war if the Inquisition asks for her help, and she knows without needing to ask that they certainly will ask. But there is still time. There must be.

She squints into the sky, but there is nothing to see except the heavy silver clouds of winter. Brief squalls of snow are constant here, but they are a natural threat, and within the walls of the fortress it's difficult to be afraid of something as simple as weather.

She's surprised when Bull turns up, wrapping his huge arms around her waist. It's been hours, enough time for morning to become night. Long enough that for it to take this long, he must have been avoiding her on purpose. He smells of sweat and dirt, and he looks exhausted, although he will never say so. "Took some time to find you," he points out. Eris shrugs. Up here on the battlements, they are removed from the crowds and the chaos down below. "I missed you," he murmurs softly into Eris' ear. "Hey kid." The Qunari smiles as he reaches out to ruffle Rafe's hair. Eris pulls away from Bull, just slightly, studying him carefully. He laughs, leaning against the walls of the battlements and grinning at her. "Still trying to spy on me, eh, little bird?"

"If I asked you to tell me what happened, would you?" she retorts defensively.

A shadow darkens Bull's features, just for a moment, and he shakes his head. "It was a clusterfuck," he mutters. "Bad intel."

Eris nods, because while things were going bad for Bull and the Inquisitor, Haven was wrecked too. She wonders if it's a coincidence, or if the new and unknown army is attacking them on every possible front. "Venatori?" she asks carefully, remembering what Dorian had recently discovered, before everything went to hell. Bull answers with a grim smile. "Not anymore. But still, Eris..." He glances down at Rafe, hesitating before continuing the conversation in front of a child. Eris frowns. Bull is being cagey. He's never held his tongue in front of Rafe before, in fact, following the Qunari's example has gotten the boy into trouble with his Chantry minders more than once.

"What's going on?" Eris asks sharply. She _pushes _at Bull's mind, without quite being conscious of what she's doing, and the Qunari growls and pushes back at her, physically. He stops her without hurting her, and Rafe watches with wide eyes. The child takes a step back, but still hovers nearby, unwilling to leave his mother alone.

Eris can feel Bull's anger and frustration, the kinds of emotional turbulence the mercenary is usually so good at keeping in check that she never notices it. "Rafe, leave us alone," she orders calmly. Her son almost protests, but the look on her face makes it clear the danger that would bring. He slips away, leaving the elf with the Qunari. "Talk to me," Eris demands, in much the same tone of voice she'd just used with her child. Bull smiles, impressed by how willing she is to order him around.

"I've gone Tal-Vashoth," he says, his voice a quiet rumble. "Tal-Va-_fucking_-Shoth." He shakes his huge head, as though he cannot quite believe it.

Eris frowns. "Is that bad?"

Bull laughs aloud, staring at Eris with a gleam of amusement in his eye. Eris can feel a blush of embarrassment flood through her at the way he fixes her under his stare. His skin, when he places his hand over her own, is flush with noticeable heat, and she only grows warmer. She looks up into his eyes, still seeking an answer to her question. He's still smiling, but there's a darkness in his eyes. He's worried.

"What's it mean?" Eris presses. She's spent a lot of time with Bull, but he rarely talks about Qunari stuff with her. She's always been fine with that, but now it feels like a critical gap in her knowledge. It's most of his life that she knows nothing about. It puts her at a disadvantage. They've been playing games with each other for years, trying to spy out information to help understand each other better. Eris could easily find the answers to her question, asking Krem, maybe, or Leliana, who would know enough about Qunari spies to at least tell her why Bull is so upset. But that feels like cheating. And it isn't what she wants.

Bull shifts away from her, leaning over the battlements and staring down at Skyhold spread out below them. Qunari words are always hard to translate. The concepts are complex and impossible to explain in just one word. The priests try for years to sum it up, and can't. Eris wants to know what Tal-Vashoth _means_. How is he supposed to tell her? He wraps his fingers into a fist and rests it gently on the balcony. "Tal-Vashoth," he repeats, speaking in low tones, more to himself than to her. "Traitor, maybe. Or... deserter. Both. It means I am no longer of the Qun."

He gives her a sidelong glance, wondering how much of the damage she is capable of understanding.

"Sometimes rules are meant to be broken," Eris points out. Bull grunts, slightly surprised. He'd never expected to hear anything so blatantly rebellious coming from her. But perhaps she understands more than he thought she would. "You had a reason, didn't you? I mean... whatever you did? It was important."

"I made a choice. To abandon the Qunari and sacrifice the Inquisition's alliance with the Qun. If I hadn't..." he winces, pained by the memories. He'd seen allies die, many more than he can count, thrown into the grinder of Seheron. They sent him here to escape that, and then they asked for more than he could give. Perhaps he's been slowly abandoning the Qun for far longer than he'd ever been willing to admit. The knowledge stabs at him.

"Bull," Eris whispers. "Whatever you did, it was the right thing. I know it was. You don't need the Qun to tell you what to do."

"Without them, I'm nothing!" he growls. An insistent fury washes through him, and it takes a lot to fight it off.

But Eris stays close, reading his anger, but unafraid of it. "That isn't true," she demands. He has taught her so much, _given _her so much. How can he think the same gifts are not equally his? "Come on," she pleads, and he follows her. They find a hidden nook in one of the watchtowers. In this mostly empty fortress, it's easy to find a place to be alone.

Eris gently runs her fingers over the bruises on his chest. His whole body is covered with scars, but these ones are new. She frowns up at him, noticing the way he holds his breath as she touches him. She isn't hurting him. This is something different. "You get those on the job?" she asks him. "Or are they from that sparring match you lost on purpose earlier?"

Bull snorts, somehow not at all surprised that she'd seen that. "It's a Qunari thing," he replies. "Helps you stare down your fear." He pulls her close to him, appreciating the fact that she fits there, resting against his chest. Eris lets the heat of his skin envelop her. His sweat mixes with her own. She laces her small fingers through his larger ones, feeling the rapid beat of his pulse beneath the skin.

"Looked to me like you were just letting Krem beat the shit out of you," she murmurs. "How does that help anything?"

Bull shrugs. "Sometimes, you just have to remind yourself that you can come through the pain, I guess. I dunno, I stopped mouthing off to my Ben-Hassrath trainers after a while. At least when they were holding weapons, anyway." He takes her hand in his, squeezing it gently. She's cold, but that's hardly surprising up here in the frigid mountains.

He presses his lips to hers, and she wraps herself around him, teasing him with her fingers. "I'm sorry," she says softly. She can't quite articulate what she's apologizing for, but she knows that Bull has been cut off from his homeland and his culture. It's obviously hitting him hard.

"I made the choice," he repeats.

Eris nods. She knows. She knows what it's like to give up everything you've ever known, everything that's kept you safe. Just because it's the right decision doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

"Bull, it doesn't matter where you come from, not really. You get to decide who you are."

It's something he's been trying to teach her for years, and she knows why he feels like those rules might not apply to him. He sighs, deep and heavy. He understands what she's trying to do, but... without the Qun to guide him, things are... confusing. Full of the guilt he's been able to sidestep for most of his life. He follows Eris, grateful to her for being here. He needs her, just as much as she needs him, and he's never been able to articulate it until now; he's never had reason to try.

Eris helps Bull strip off the few clothes he's wearing. He doesn't fight her. Far from it. He pulls her closer, wrapping her tightly in his arms, holding her against his chest, refusing to let her go. Eris gasps, holding her breath as she waits. Her muscles are tense, she can feel his trembling. She bites her lip. Eris lets her hand slip lower, from his stomach to the erection that is obvious even with his loose-fitting pants. He fixes her with a familiar one-eyed stare. Eris' mouth suddenly goes dry, fear and longing mixing in equal measure. When his fingers run up her spine, under her thin shirt, she tenses up. She is so used to holding people at a distance that his closeness almost seems to set her on fire. Bull runs his fingers through the tangles of her dark hair, listening to the race of her heartbeat.

Eris takes another breath, and spreads her hand over Bull's expansive chest. He responds to the gentle push of her movement. He lays down on the stone floor, unbothered by its lack of comfort. He tries to grab Eris, but she worms away from him, laughing as he growls in frustration. She teases him, first with touches, then with magic. She has always used her power to push people away, to construct walls between herself and danger. This is different. Lines of heat follow her fingers across Bull's skin, unnatural strength evens the physical odds between them. Not all the way, but enough. Bull's breathing grows heavy, and he fights her, clawing and scratching with his blunted claws. "Fuck it, Eris," he breathes. "Just let me..."

She shakes her head, still not ready. She is having too much fun, she can feel the power of her mana growing, soaking up Bull's longing along with her own, fueling her. She uses the winter air around them, watching in wonder as ice forms itself in crystals on her fingertips. She brushes them over Bull's skin, feeling his muscles tense as he shivers and snaps at her. Bull hates the cold. But he doesn't tell her to stop. She expects the magical ice to melt against the heat of his skin, but it doesn't. And she's fascinated by the crystalline patterns that form over his muscles. The frigid touch must be painful, she can see the reaction in his eyes. He repeats her name, panting and groaning. "Please," he growls. He holds her gaze, and she wonders why he doesn't fight her. She kisses him, gently, on the lips, breaking her own concentration. The spell fades, but the cold lingers, up here in the unheated towers of the mountain fortress. Bull grabs at her desperately. This time, she nods, and blissful release heat overwhelms both of them.


	17. Chapter 17

In the early morning light, people cluster around the statue of Andraste hidden in one of Skyhold's seemingly countless small gardens and courtyards. The Chantry's priests and the small army of children they command had lovingly cleared the monument of centuries' worth of weeds, mold, and spiderwebs, and they've begun re-planting the fertile soil with healing herbs and edible plants, at Jacob Trevelyan's insistence. Yes, the Chantry can have the space, but they must use it to serve the people. It is a compromise they cannot afford to deny him.

Eris remains at the back of the crowd, resting against a crumbling trellis half-overgrown with ivy. She rubs at her eyes, calling on the magic inside herself to wake up a little bit. She wonders, yet again, why they have to have these services at dawn. It doesn't seem fair.

The Inquisitor looks uncomfortable with all of the attention on him at the moment, but Eris is certain that is more because of the nature of the ceremony than any shyness on his part. He lost that a long time ago, and has been giving speeches to crowds larger than this one since shortly after the Breach. After closing the very same rip in the sky, she has never heard him falter when giving orders, whether in a public address or to a small group of his advisors. The Chantry is different though. Most of these old lady priests have the power to make everyone around them feel instantly like small children who've been caught stealing treats from the kitchen. It must be even worse for Jacob, who was actually subject to their authority through his entire adolescence.

He clears his throat as Mother Giselle finishes her prayer, giving praise and thanks to the Maker, glorying in the safe return of the Inquisitor and his soldiers, reveling in gratitude that they have found safety in this fortress, surely guided by a divine hand. And on and on.

Trevelyan waits for her to finish speaking, then bows his head and offers a familiar prayer of memoriam in a soft voice – a pointed reminder not to let their supposed victory overshadow its cost. They lost so many at Haven. They lost more at Adamant, and in the smaller battles they engage in nearly every day, scattered across the ruined landscapes of Ferelden and Orlais. The memory of the ongoing fight casts a looming darkness over even this brief spell of calm.

Jacob smiles then, and reaches out to take Rafe's hand. He relaxes, genuinely, as the Eris' son smiles back. The child, along with a few others, are the real reason for their gathering this morning. Those other children hang back though. Most of them stare up at the Inquisitor with wide-eyed awe.

"Are you scared?" Jacob asks them.

"No," Rafe answers immediately, speaking for all of them. His confidence seems contagious. The other children start nodding and chattering agreement.

"Hush," Mother Giselle insists. Silence is immediate. "Step forward, Rafael," the woman commands.

Rafe glances back at Jacob, waiting for the Inquisitor's nod of encouragement before he lets go of his hand and takes a step toward the priest.

She quickly traces a holy symbol on his forehead with her thumb, then finds a candle in her pocket and hands it to the boy. He takes it, holding it reverently, staring into the flame as soon as its lit. It flickers gently in the early morning breeze. When he looks up, into the crowd, he sees his mother watching him. He grins at her, only for a minute. She's far enough away that he can't see her face, but he hopes she's happy. He can _feel _Mother Giselle staring at him, commanding his attention with just a look. She softens, slightly but noticeably, before pushing him gently forward. Rafe looks out into the crowd, and clears his throat softly. His youthful voice carries, strong and sure:

"_Then the Maker said, To you, my second-born, I grant this gift  
__In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame, all-consuming and never satisfied._"

The flame in his hand is the symbol, and Rafe is young, but not too young to recognize it's importance. He resists the urge to run his hand through the fire, or blow it out. He stands still, and it feels like a choice, not an imposition. He smiles at Mother Giselle, and she smiles too. She squeezes his shoulder gently before turning back to the others.

"Step forward, Adele."

The quiet girl does as she's told, and seems to jump when the live flame is pushed into her hand. Her size makes her seem younger than her seven years. Her blonde hair reflects the light. She speaks softly, yet the force of the recitation makes it audible, as though there is a kind of magic contained in the ritual of the words. Eris can feel it, even at the back of the crowd, a kind of pressure within her chest. It's the kind of thing she would have lashed out against, a long time ago. Now, it feels somewhat reassuring.

She holds Rafe's amulet in loose fingers and watches the rest of the children pledge their belief in Andraste. It's not the kind of thing you'd expect to find in a heretic's camp, and as the handful of children continue their simple recitations, Eris finds her attention wandering from them to Trevelyan, wondering how he feels about all this. He masks his emotions well – no doubt his diplomat girlfriend has been schooling him in that – but he doesn't seem uncomfortable. He believes in at least some of this. It's hard not to.

At the end of the ceremony, five young children have become faithful believers in the Chantry's religion. But the whole thing takes only about a quarter of an hour, and it ends as simply as it began, with people breaking off to head toward other duties. The Chantry priests keep the children close, but already Trevelyan and his advisors are starting to gather together, planning for war. Eris nearly slips away, but Leliana gently grabs her wrist, asking her to stay.

Cullen walks over to the two of them, smiling slightly. He catches Eris' eye, and seems to read some of her uncertainty. She isn't truly bothering to hide it. She keeps glancing over to where her son has been guided away by the women in Chantry robes.

"He has professed his belief in the Church," the commander points out. "It doesn't mean they own him."

Leliana shakes her head, telling the man that this isn't the time. Cullen ignores her.

Eris frowns. Other than the fact that he looks obviously exhausted, it's very hard to pick up on how Cullen is feeling. She doesn't know much about him, but his very public refusal of the Chantry's hold on the templars is hard to ignore. "You.." she starts, but she falters quickly, not sure how to phrase her question. Cullen smiles.

"I broke away from the Chantry, yes. It doesn't mean I've given up on faith." He glances down, at her fingers playing with the amulet she still wears around her neck. "Looks like you haven't either."

Eris stops fiddling with the necklace immediately, looking suddenly embarrassed. "It's not... I mean... Rafe gave it to me."

Cullen glances toward the pathway where her son had recently stood, though the space is empty now. Everyone other than the Inquisitor's small war council has left the courtyard. "Did you never think to ask him why?"

Eris frowns, wondering what this soldier – former _templar_ – is getting at. Cullen looks away, effectively ending the conversation. He fiddles with something he pulls out of his pocket, one of the markers used to indicate troop positions on a map.

"I need your help," he announces, and he could be talking solely to her, or to all of them, but Eris nods slowly anyway.

She's still unwilling to say no to someone with as much power and status as Commander Cullen even in the best of circumstances, and especially now. It is... remarkable, the speed with which he can shift from a shy and polite exterior to the hardness underneath. When he stops bothering with the mask, it's easy to remember how many thousands of forces he commands. It's easy to be afraid of him. He is cold and calculating, and he will use her and any other pawn he has the power to move. His fingers clench into a tight fist as he scans the men and women around him.

"You've found something?" Jacob asks softly. "You _know _something."

Cullen doesn't answer the question directly. He slams a fist down on the nearby statue in the center of the courtyard, and scowls. "I should've seen it..." he mutters. "Should've..." He shakes his head, as if trying to clear it, and when he glances up again, his eyes are bloodshot-red.

"Oh come on," Varric drawls. "If we're gonna blame anyone, it oughta be me." The dwarf sits down on a stone bench, his fingers wrapped loosely around his crossbow.

"Or me," Mira cuts in. Her voice is quiet, but forceful, and Eris begins to understand how she drew so many people to follow her in the chaos of her days as Champion.

Cullen immediately steps in to defend her, exactly as she'd known he would. "You couldn't have known..." he begins, but he trips over his tongue when he sees the way Hawke looks at him, and he ducks his head, blushing a little. The soft smirk on the mage leader's face makes Eris smile too. Mira takes Cullen's hand, and kisses him gently. He relaxes noticeably, but pushes her away, just enough to focus on the monumental task at hand. "The army that attacks us is being led by a former templar named Samson," he tells Jacob, and Eris, and everyone else that doesn't already know. "I knew him, in Kirkwall. I never thought..."

"He's using red lyrium," Varric announces. The presence of the mysterious mineral is the reason Cullen had come to him first. Damn it all. "The shit's been spreading. It's everywhere now. If I'd known that were possible..." he shakes his head. "Shit, I don't know. I wish I'd never heard of it."

"It's dangerous," Mira insists. "It makes people crazy."

"More than that," Cullen interupts. "It makes them not even people anymore. They turn into monsters, stronger and faster than any living man. And absolutely loyal to whoever's controlling them."

"Samson?" Eris asks.

"No. He leads them, but he is not capable of controlling all of them. He is a slave, as they all are. But he willingly sacrificed his soul for power." He doesn't bother hiding his hatred. It practically drips from him. Eris shivers a little, stepping back despite herself.

"You seem pretty certain of that," she murmurs.

"I _am _certain of that. And I intend to stop him."

"Do we know where they're based?" Jacob asks. His eyes flicker from Cullen to Eris, and he bites his lip, clearly uncomfortable with the intensity of his commander's emotions at the moment. Eris files that observation away too. She doesn't know how to use it, but that doesn't mean it isn't useful. She glances at Leliana, knowing that the spymaster is certainly doing the same. Keeping track of how people feel, and how they relate to each other. It's not a skill set that's easy to turn off.

"We can find out," Leliana says, looking at Jacob. But when she glances at Eris, it's obvious she's not asking a question. The elven spy nods. She'll go. She can't refuse an order this important. She wouldn't even if she could.

The war council moves indoors after about an hour, retreating to a room lined with maps and parchments and echoing with bitter arguments among Trevelyan's advisors. Despite, or maybe because of, the loud and furious disagreements, the planning goes all day. Food is brought in for them, and the sky outside the windows grows steadily darker. Eris stays quiet through most of the meeting, uncertain that she even belongs here. Everyone else screams over each other, trying to make their voices heard, arguing for their way of doing things.

Finally, Eris slips over to the table, studying the map. The miles seem so easily crossed, sketched out as they are on clean paper. But there's no way of knowing how long she'll be gone, and the real world is a lot more dangerous than an empty map.

"See anything useful?" Jacob asks, resting his hand on her on the shoulder.

She shakes her head. "I'm not good with paper. I have to be out there. See what it really looks like."

"Makes sense," he nods. "Well, we'll be leaving at first light."

There is an eagerness to his tone that Eris appreciates. He too is not made for hiding in a fortress. He needs to be out there, fighting. Jacob will not be the kind of leader who orders his soldiers to risk their lives while he remains safely out of harm's way.

The Inquisitor smiles at Josephine from across the room, and orders the end of the meeting, over the expected token protests. They've accomplished all they're going to standing around talking.

The corridors are quiet when Eris leaves the war room, reflecting the lateness of the hour. Some of the Inquisitor's many visitors and hangers-on gather in the corners speaking in hushed whispers, seeding rumors and playing political games. Eris avoids them, though she notices how they grow quiet as she walks past, so as not to be overheard.

It's a relief to return to the small room that she shares with Rafe in the tavern the Chargers and mercenaries have already started improvising within the fort. Her son sleeps on the single bed tucked into the corner, watched over by Bull. The Qunari grins as she comes in. "You here to pack your bags?" he asks cheerfully.

Eris frowns. "Aren't you coming?"

He shakes his huge horned head. "I don't think the Inquisition trusts me very much right now."

"Bull, I can..."

"No," he stops her before she even finishes her sentences. "We're soldiers, Eris. We follow orders when we have to, both of us."

"But -"

"The Inquisition is asking for your help. They need you to scout out this new army. They don't need me out there, and that's fine. It's not really my kind of job anyway."

Eris slowly nods, letting herself relax. She doesn't really want to argue anyway. She curls up in Bull's lap, the only space available to sit without waking Rafe. The Qunari hugs her close to his chest as she reaches out to brush her fingers through her son's hair.

Rafe stirs; his eyelids flutter, but he does not awaken. His breath is warm when it puffs out over her skin. His fingers tighten into a loose fist and his hand eventually drops, relaxed, to flail against the empty air.

Eris sighs. "He won't sleep alone anymore," she explains, pitching her voice low and soft.

Bull grins. "Not unlike someone else I know," he teases. Eris nods, but she's already closing off part of herself, preparing to be separated from both of them for what might be a very long time. Bull recognizes what she's doing. He doesn't blame her. He used to be able to do the same kind of thing, although that seems like a long time ago. He sighs, rubbing at the tension in her muscles. His large fingers easily massage her skinny shoulders. "Don't worry," he insists. "I'll take care of him. Don't you trust me?"

She looks up into his single eye, and nods. If there is anyone in the world she trusts to take care of the most important thing in her life, it's him. She has to believe that it will be enough.


	18. Chapter 18

Dorian rubs his hand over his face and tromps out into the frigid night. Hazy fog rises from the surface of the frozen river. He heads toward a warm light in the distance, a magical fire.

"You're getting better," Dorian observes, leaning against a tree with a smile. "Stronger. More controlled."

Eris shrugs. Dorian's presence still raises her hackles, puts her in the mood to fight. He grins at her, an obnoxious smirk that makes her grind her teeth.

He holds up his hands, palms out in from of him, a gesture of self-defense. "If we're going to be risking our lives out here in this frozen wasteland, we ought to at least be on the same side. Don't you think?"

"We are on the same side."

"But you still hate me."

She turns to look at him, staring for a long, silent stretch that makes Dorian instinctively uncomfortable. He clears his throat awkwardly, finally looking down at the forest floor. There is a curling tree root near his feet, and underneath it the eyes of some local rodent glow yellow. He sighs, and steps awkwardly around the animal, moving closer to the fire. "Go get some sleep," he tells Eris, his voice still speaking in the language of command. It's a reasonable suggestion, there'd be no reason to assume she would fight against it. But she ignores his words and sits down on a half-rotten log, keeping her body carefully balanced enough that it doesn't crumble beneath her.

Dorian frowns. "You're keeping yourself awake just because I told you not to, aren't you?"

Eris shrugs, but she lets him see the pleasantly defiant smirk on her face. Her eyes sparkle with subtle mischief, but the exhaustion she can't wipe away is all too obvious. Dorian feels it too. He certainly hasn't been sleeping well in this frigid, tainted valley.

'Emprise du Lion,' he repeats silently. The Orlesians do have a habit of pompous grandstanding, and it seems that nearly every section of the nation he visits is even more of a disapointment to the proud name it's been given. But even in the darkness, he can tell that isn't the fault of the people living here. Something far more dangerous is corrupting the land – the war, the broken Veil, the outcroppings everywhere of red lyrium that seem to reflect an eerily bloody light.

He glances at Eris once more, not surprised that her gaze is drawn to that flickering mineral spiking out of the rocks like so many swords. "You've been having nightmares," he says. It isn't a question. Eris nods. "It doesn't surprise me," Dorian muses. He's been having them too, though he doesn't say so. "The lyrium... it weakens the Veil. Your power comes easier here, but so do the dreams."

Eris nods again, still staring off into the distance. Dorian knows that she isn't ignoring him, but her focus is on the land around them, the frozen river. She is a scout, not a philosopher. It doesn't especially matter _why _things happen, only that they do. They are circumstances she will adjust to. Or not. And the day she doesn't, she'll die.

She rubs her arm across her face and breathes into the cold quiet.

"Get some sleep," Dorian repeats, more gently. Eris glances at him, but finally nods. Her watch has ended, and it will help no one if she is too exhausted to fight the next day. So far they have seen little activity since leaving the abandoned town of Sahrnia, but that lack is much more eerie than comforting.

Eris crawls into her tent. It's small, but in the frozen chill it still feels uncomfortably empty. The wind howls outside, and she burrows deep into the layers of fur blankets atop her bedroll. Voices tug at her, making sleep restless when it comes. She tosses and turns, fighting off nightmares that come from her own memories, warped into something darker and much more monstrous. The twisted reality is far more frightening than any of the beasts Rafe has sworn hide under beds and in hidden corners of darkness.

Rafe. Eris opens her mouth to scream, helplessly, as the shadowy form of an impossibly tall man reaches out to strike him. Rafe falls to the ground before the hit even connects, with blood trickling from his mouth. When he meets her eyes, he opens his mouth to scream, but instead of a child's cry, Eris hears a demonic hiss, and instead of her son's face she sees a gaping maw of darkness, crowded with long, sharp teeth.

"Rafe!" she yells. Tears sting her eyes and she reaches out for him. As soon as her fingers touch his, a sharp pain spikes up her arm. Everything disappears in a puff of smoke, but when she looks down, blood trails rake down her arm. Her breathing comes in sharp, ragged gasps. Her eyes fly open.

Eris' heart pounds frantically in her chest, and power coaelesces over her skin. She looks down at her arm, expecting to see blood, but there isn't any. The magical energy crackling around her flares bright, then suddenly fizzles. In her panic, she tries to lash out, but comes up empty. She grabs for the dagger nearby, moving too slow. If the intruder in her tent was an enemy here to kill her, she'd certainly already be dead.

Instead, Dorian stands just inside the tent's opening. She grinds her teeth, waiting for him to smirk or say something infuriating. Instead, he just looks worried. "Are you alright?" he asks softly.

"What did you do? I can't..."

"It's nothing permanent. I just pulled your mana into myself. So you wouldn't get hurt. It won't last."

"I never asked you too!"

"You don't..." Dorian sighs, obviously frustrated, fumbling for words. "Sometimes people need help even though they don't ask for it," he finally says.

"I'm fine," Eris spits from between gritted teeth. "It was just a nightmare."

Dorian nods, clearly not believing her. But the blue light of morning is already bleeding into the tent, and they can both hear the shouted commands of the camp beginning to rouse.

Eris rubs her face with her hands and tucks her knives away, then begins to dress. Dorian hovers, watching. Eris is acutely conscious of his eyes on her, but she ignores it. She pushes past him into the winter chill. The cold helps clear her head.

She tromps over to the small group gathered round the fire, and gratefully accepts when someone pushes a mug full of steaming coffee into her gloved hands. She sips it slowly, nodding at the Rivaini woman wrapped in several layers of clothing, with a face mostly hidden beneath a thick scarf. She looks even more miserable than Eris does.

"Have they made any move?" Eris asks.

The Rivaini shakes her head. "They gather in the caves. Well hidden and difficult to approach without being spotted. And -"

"And they're not just caves," Varric agrees. He steps up between the two of them, caressing his crossbow lovingly. "They're entrances to mines. Deep and twisted ones. Some may even go as far as the Deep Roads. Shit, did I mention how much I hate this place?"

Eris gives the dwarf a look, but holds her tongue. She can't blame him for trying to babble enough to distract himself from their situation. "Can you get us in?" she asks him pointedly.

He rolls his eyes. "Oh sure, ask the dwarf. Need I remind you, I'm a _merchant_, not a miner." Eris just glares at him. "Fine, fine. Getting in won't be a problem. I'd say they're not much looking for a fight."

Eris shakes her head. "No. That's not true. These templars... they'll be waiting for an attack."

"Why would they be? Everyone here has given them everything they've asked for."

Eris feels an unsettled reluctance to charge into their stronghold, reservations sharp as shattered glass inside her stomach. But she slowly nods, unable to find the words to challenge Varric's confidence.

She grabs her gear, moving quickly but carefully enough not to be seen. She wonders, not for the first time, why she was sent on this mission. This kind of middle-of-nowhere scouting is not what she's good at; there is no group of people to fit into, hiding in plain sight. There is none of the rumors and webs of information she can keep the pulse of, as she did in Halamshiral or Minrathous. The nearest civilization is in the nearly-abandoned village of Sahrnia. It is helpful only in that its emptiness proves the danger of staying for long in this region.

Eris heads that way anyway, keeping to the edge of the road in case she needs to duck into cover at any point. She startles when she hears someone tromping along behind her. Dorian. She can sense – almost taste – the magic flaring within him.

"You draw too much attention," she hisses.

Her magic, unlike his, makes it easier for her to hide. People will look away from where she is, without realizing it. She moves smoothly and silently, like a ghost.

Dorian glances at her out of the corner of his eye, and grumbles, but he hangs back, knowing she's right. He's never been one for sneaking around.

"Cheer up, Sparkler," Varric laughs. The dwarf eyes the spikes of red lyrium jutting out into the mountain paths, eyes narrowed in an expression somewhere between wariness and anger, as he holds Bianca aimed at them.

"I don't think you can shoot a rock," Dorian mutters.

"It's closer to a crystal. It can shatter." Memories of Kirkwall prove the truth of that statement. The dwarf shudders slightly, wishing he could get rid of the visions of that cursed place. He whistles instead as he pulls back a bolt and lets Bianca do her thing. The vein of lyrium cracks, oozing with a viscous liquid that resembles dark blood.

Behind Varric, Cullen frowns, and paces.

"It didn't shatter," Varric announces.

"Do you gain pleasure in stating the obvious?" Cullen spits. His eyes flash with anger, and Varric steps out of the way, allowing the man to swing his sword against the lyrium crystal. He doesn't stop after the first hit, but keeps trying, again and again, venting all of his anger and rage against the convenient target. Eventually, the rock does shatter, after so many hits that no one has bothered counting. Splinters of it litter the ground. Cullen breathes heavily, careful not to touch any of it.

Eris takes his hand, uncertain, and when he squeezes her fingers in his, it almost hurts. "Come on," she insists. "Surely someone will have noticed that."

Cullen nods, though he still seems dazed.

The Inquisition's larger force scouts ahead of their small group, avoiding the worst infestations of tainted lyrium. Those attuned to magic seek it out. Eris, Dorian, and Cullen are compelled to destroy it, fighting against its corruptive influence. There is something deeply satisfying in shattering the spikes. It fills Eris with hope that she can find rest the next time she tries, that she can weaken the nightmares that the lyrium seeds. But destroying the mineral shards are not the reason they are here, not really. They fight the symptom, but hidden somewhere in the twisting network of caves nearby, they will find the root cause of this plague that assaults the land.

"We've found a camp," the Rivaini says, pulling a hastily-sketched map out of her pack when she returns to their camp in the early hours of evening. "It is not large, perhaps a dozen men."

"A dozen red templars," Cullen reminds them all, and the scout nods.

"Yes." She frowns as she describes the inhuman grotesqueness of their forms, visible even from her hidden vantage point. She does not seem disturbed by the idea of fighting them however. It does not seem to occur to her that the Inquisition might lose. Cullen nods, pulling her aside to ask more detailed questions. Eris prepares for the coming battle.

The camp is placed well, atop a rocky rise. It will be difficult – perhaps impossible – to get in close enough to cause any real damage without being seen. As she hides within the cover of the trees a few leagues away, Dorian puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder. As she watches, a purple ball of crackling energy centers itself on the nest of Red Templars. She startles, expecting some horror, a trap, the fraying Veil breaking open to release unspeakable horror. She isn't wrong, but Dorian's grim smile shows that the trap is one he sets, and controls.

Dark whispers fill the air, and the templars are stirred into action, fighting ghostly images and the manifestations of their haunted minds. The Inquisition's forces pick them off easily with arrows fired from longbows safely out of range from any distracted retaliation they might attempt.

This camp, though, was always meant to be a lure. Out in the open, giving the leader of the templars time to stride dramatically out of the entrance to the caves. Eris finds herself at least respecting the fact that Samson doesn't cower in hiding.

Behind her, Cullen curses. Before she can say anything, the Commander stalks out of the forest, walking up the narrow road, fully visible. Varric mutters something insulting about stupid honor getting men killed, but makes no real move to stop Cullen. The dwarf hefts Bianca enough to provide the human soldier with reasonable cover, and follows a few steps behind.

The leader of the Red Templars walks with a measured pace, stopping just out of range of Cullen's sword, and smiling. "Knight Captain," Samson nods. "I can't say I expected to see you again."

"How dare you?" Cullen rages. He picks up the other former templar by the front of his shirt, and slams him against the village's stone wall. Samson is dazed for perhaps a couple of heartbeats, but then he shakes his head, and grins.

"Righteously violent as always, eh?" He spits at Cullen's feet, his spittle darkening the dry ground. Samson wipes the back of his hand across his lips, and sneers. His breath puffs out into the winter sky. "Remind me, what exactly is my crime?"

"You're a traitor!" Cullen spits. "You sacrifice the men you command without regard to their lives; you corrupt their souls. You have abandoned the oath you swore-"

"And so have you. There is no difference between us, not really."

Cullen grows quickly impatient with the man's distracting chatter. He raises his sword and swings it in a high arc, aiming for Samson's head. A crossbow bolt twangs through the air, flying true. It lodges itself through a weak point in Samson's decrepit armor. The breastplate he wears is nearly falling apart, but underneath, his flesh has been hardened by the lyrium he has consumed. Spikes of it jut seemingly at random from his body, leaking that same bloodlike ooze from the wounds. Though the bolt fired from Bianca is embedded so deeply into the side of his chest that it can barely be seen, after entering under his sword arm, Samson seems barely bothered. His responses to Cullen's attacks are perhaps a bit slow, but he makes no grimace of pain and shows no fear. He does, however, cease talking, defending his territory with a single-minded purpose that makes it possible to remember that he was indeed once a templar, trained to perform a singular duty in the face of magical terrors.

Eris, watching the fight from afar, feels a flicker of warning, the sensation of a predator's breath, hot on her neck. She whirls around, but sees nothing. Her heart continues to beat heavily inside her chest, a dull thudding beneath her ribcage. Though the ground beneath her is frozen and the air is cold enough that breathing hurts, there is no snow. The sky is grey, almost white. A streak of red lightning flickers across that empty sky, and the thunderclap echoes a moment later. Eris jumps slightly, and draws in a deep breath, aware of the magical force pulling at her. She casts a glance at Cullen and Varric, still entangled in the battle with Samson, but tells herself that they will be alright. She won't be gone long. She's just going to see what's ahead.

She follows the magical trail carefully, remaining hidden. Though she sees nothing with her mundane senses, the footprints are clear, like the fading notes of a song, or the perfume left behind long after the noblewoman wearing it has left a room.

Though it takes most of her concentration to focus on the magic, which is surprisingly subtle, she is too good at keeping herself alive to fail to notice that she is being followed. She stops short, in the middle of the pine forest. Ahead of her, the snow continues unblemished. She wonders how long it has been since her quarry has passed this way, or if there is some other means of access to the hidden stronghold she is now more and more certain she will find up ahead. She sighs, then glances backward.

"What do you want, Dorian?"

"Me?" he asks innocently, holding up the hand that isn't clutching his staff. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't wandering to your death following this siren song."

"Didn't think you'd care," she points out calmly.

Dorian shrugs. "You're a valuable agent of the Inqusition, right? I just... figured someone should keep an eye on you."

Eris doesn't bother responding to that, but she doesn't tell Dorian to go away either, and he continues watching her back as she tromps through the forest. She isn't quite sure what she's looking for, but she's certain she'll know it when she sees it. Behind her, Dorian is remarkably subdued. Eris doesn't miss his twitchiness, though they haven't stumbled into a red lyrium deposit of any remarkable size in hours. She wonders if he's trying to be quiet. It doesn't seem like him, but then, neither does camping out in the freezing wilderness, or joining up with the Inquisition in the first place. It annoys her that she's been so wrong about so many of her preconceptions regarding him.

As if he can somehow read what she is thinking, Dorian smiles softly. "Look," he whispers.

She does, and though he does not point or make any physical indication of where she's supposed to look, it becomes immediately obvious. The red-lyrium light has changed from flickering lightning across the sky to a steady glow more reminiscent of a campfire.

Eris reaches out tentatively with her own power, heightening her magical senses and trying to recognize what form the danger inside the narrow, hidden entrance to the abandoned mine will take. She feels an intense pressure, and a wave of fear, but Dorian's sudden presence steadies her. "You ready?" he asks.

Eris slowly nods. She knows she could sneak in more easily without him, but this whole situation feels too much like the overpowering assault of the Venatori at Adamant, or their scheming manipulations in the Winter Palace of Orlais. "Those aren't templars in there," she murmurs. Dorian nods. There is too much magic emanating outward from the place. Too much familiarity.

He goes first, creating a wisp of magical light, letting it hover above their heads, glowing a soft yellow. The walls press in against them, but aside from a faint certainty of someone's presence nearby, up ahead, waiting for them, they encounter no physical evidence that this place is even occupied.

The paths through the mine slope noticeably downward, twisting and curving in tight loops and spirals, with branching paths and cave-ins making the entire place treacherous. Dorian leads, though Eris follows so closely that she can feel the heat of him. Then, suddenly, the claustrophobic maze opens into what can only be called a clearing. Eris looks up, amazed to see the sky, bright and clear above them.

They are not alone here. But at least they have not walked into a waiting army. At the far end of the room, a single cloaked figure leans over a table littered with fist-sized chunks of red lyrium. They glow softly in the gloom.

After a few heartbeats, while Eris hesitates just slightly before pulling a dagger from its sheath at her hip, the woman turns away from the red glow of the lyrium, and smiles.

Eris expects to see more of the wild insanity she's encountered in the lyrium-addled monsters they've fought this far. Instead, the woman standing in front of her seems... normal. Her white-blonde hair is curled at the nape of her neck, and she wears diamonds and rubies that conspicuously adorn her fingers and wrists and neck. Her dress though, is common, even travelworn, an odd match for the wealth her jewelry displays. And the way she holds herself is... familiar. Despite the carefree smile on her face, her eyes are constantly moving, trying to take in everything at once, almost paranoid. And there is no mistaking the knives strapped to her leg, within easy reach, where she probably assumes they are hidden. They probably are, from someone who isn't as observant as Eris is. The knives are a backup, though. She holds her real weapon plainly visible, a staff, carved from dark wood, polished smooth, a crystal of red lyrium focusing the power that swirls casually around her.

Behind Eris, Dorian tenses. "She's a magister," he warns.

Eris shakes her head. "No. She isn't."

Calpernia's smile grows wider, somewhere between predatory and approving. She ignores Dorian and focuses on Eris. "I know what you are. And you need not bow before him any longer."

"Woah!" Dorian protests, holding up his hands. "You are... very, _very _wrong. Nobody bows before me. Especially not her." He nods at Eris, as Calpernia's smile curls into a sneer.

"Leave us," the Venatori leader commands, with such carefully restrained fury that Eris wouldn't be surprised to see her spit at Dorian. Surprisingly, Dor looks to Eris, almost as if asking for permission. Eris waits for an agonizingly slow heartbeat, then nods slightly. Dor waits too, then retreats. He hovers at the entrance to the shrine, in the darkness. He doesn't doubt that both women are fully aware of his presence, but neither protests it. He is far enough away, and he can't find it in himself to leave Eris alone completely. They're not friends, exactly, but in the heart of the enemy's stronghold, he owes her at least this much.

He strains his senses, trying to pick up on what Eris and Calpernia are saying, but it's a lost cause. He isn't sure whether they're silencing themselves behind a wall of magic or if they're both simply too well practiced in not being overheard.

Eris can feel the pressure of Calpernia's will, subtly attempting to dominate her. It's an old, familiar trick for someone who grew up in Tevinter, and she easily resists it, laughing as though the woman had just told her a joke. Calpernia's eyes widen, the flash with rage. She stalks toward Eris. The lyrium flickers red at the top of her staff, but she attacks physically rather than magically. She raises a hand to slap Eris, or grab her, but the elf has already dodged the blow before it's even made. "You dare!" Calpernia hisses.

Eris lashes out with a kick, aiming for the knee and sending Calpernia to the floor. She lands hard, and grits her teeth against the pain. Eris guesses it's been a long time since anyone's laid a hand on her opponent. That makes it easier. The woman's reflexes are slow, she's no longer used to defending herself. Her fingers still curl around her staff, however, and Eris can feel her gathering magical power. She's too strong, too practiced, for Eris to be able to stop her, so the elven woman doesn't try. She lets the spell wash over her, gritting her teeth against the pain that assaults her every nerve. It buys time for Dorian to decide he was never built for watching when he could step in and act. He gathers lightning in his hand, almost lazily, and launches it at the Venatori leader.

The electricity wraps itself around her, causing her to spasm and jerk, though she negates the spell quickly. More quickly, in fact, than Dorian has ever been able to manage. More quickly than he's ever seen. The woman grabs a knife seemingly from out of nowhere and finds him in the shadows with unnerving accuracy. When their eyes meet, hers flash with fury.

Dorian rolls his eyes and calls upon the Fade, reaching for the spirits who hover close to the Veil in this space. They seek vengeance for the blood she's spilled, and it doesn't take much control at all for Dorian to set them free and direct them toward Calpernia. The semi-transluscent ghosts howl around her, battering at her psyche more than her physical form.

"That should distract her for a while," Dorian insists.

He holds Eris' gaze, waiting for her to make a move. But she doesn't.

He wonders why the elf seems so reluctant to kill Calpernia. Perhaps she means to take the woman captive for the Inquisitor to judge. He isn't aware of any orders to that effect, but then, he's hardly privy to everything that happens in Trevelyan's war councils.

Even when he practically demands that she do so, Eris doesn't take advantage of the upper hand he's given her in this fight, instead leaving it to Dorian to decide what to do with their prisoner.

He pushes Calpernia into magically-induced sleep, and binds her, wishing for the first time in his life that a templar was nearby so that he could be certain that the Venatori's powerful magic could be kept under control. Her willpower is viciously strong, and he isn't certain how long his sleep spell will last. He tells Eris as much, and she nods distractedly, sweeping her hand under the table and unlatching a carefully concealed hidden compartment. She tucks its contents - which seem to consist mostly of various scraps of parchment as far as Dorian can tell – into a belt pouch, and glances at Calpernia, unconscious in his arms.

"Can you... Is it possible to alter her memory? Make her forget our presence here."

Dorian frowns. "I... should be able to," he hedges. What the hell is she getting at?

"Do it. And let's get out of here."

"You're just going to... to let her go free! She _controls _the Venatori. The blood mages? Remember them? They plan to destroy the entire world!"

Eris sighs. "I won't kill her, Dor," she murmurs. She won't look at him.

"Fine. Then I will."

He draws a knife across the woman's throat, disturbed by how tempting the power swirling up from the spilled blood is, beckoning to him. The small tear in the Veil echoes with disturbing laughter.

Eris watches with wide eyes, completely still, for as long as it takes Dorian to sheathe the knife. He demands that she follow him, and she obeys.

The walk back through the mine is even more subdued than their journey into it, and though Eris is certain that Calpernia's accomplices will soon stumble upon the place, their way through is clear.

Cullen is waiting for them at the Inquisition camp. She thrusts the stolen papers at the solider without a word, and disappears into the deep forest.


	19. Chapter 19

Cullen takes the papers Eris has provided and makes an attempt to disappear into his tent with them. But his heightened awareness of magic, honed over decades of training in the Circles and the kind of thing he refuses to ignore in the lyrium-corrupted wasteland of the Emprise, tells him immediately that his attempt will not be so easy as he'd hoped.

He sighs, setting the tattered missives down atop his small table and curling his hand over them to keep them safe, for now. "Dorian," he says tiredly. "What do you want?"

The mage from Tevinter lets himself in and leans against the wall of the tent, just inside the doorway, with exaggerated carelessness. Cullen takes one look at the man's narrowed eyes and knows that he is deeply worried. He is making no true attempt to hide it, and Cullen knows such worry is well deserved.

Dorian glances in the direction of the rest of the camp, and the wider world beyond it. They can hear the rustling and clatter of various people moving about, smell the smoke of a cookfire. It's a comforting enough backdrop for Cullen, who by now is used to these kinds of war camps. Dorian is not nearly as at ease, or perhaps it is simply that he still regards Cullen as a templar.

They both know that in another, smaller tent, bound and guarded, Samson awaits justice far less immediately decisive than what the mage had offered the Venatori agent in the caves. Cullen glances down at the confiscated papers once again, annoyed to realize he'll have to ask the Tevinter for help if he has any hope of reading them.

"Have you learned anything from Samson?" Dorian asks carefully.

Cullen shakes his head slightly. "Haven't yet tried," he admits.

Dorian gives a short nod, letting his eyes wander around the close confines of the tent. It doesn't surprise him that Cullen appears to be a minimalist. Unfortunately, it means there's little he can pretend to focus on. Cullen leans against the table, still staring at him.

"No matter what they are now, those men used to be templars," Dorian points out. "Chantry. I never imagined they would willingly work with the Venatori."

"They were lost," Cullen whispers. "Cast aside by the ones they had once put their faith in. Desperate for power. Easily ensnared."

Dorian raises an eyebrow. "You sound... sad," he muses.

Cullen shrugs. "Maybe I am."

Dorian nods. "I wasn't expecting sad, that's all. More... angry. When we first set out you seemed pretty desperate yourself. All you talked about back at Skyhold was taking revenge on this man Samson."

"You mean I sounded like you do when you speak of the Venatori?"

Dorian's eyes widen, but then he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I suppose so."

Cullen nods. "Vengeance does not hold the allure it once did, I'll admit. Does killing the Venatori bring you the pleasure you seek?"

Dorian's muscles tense a bit, but he does not answer the question. Cullen shrugs. He will not press the matter. He taps at the papers under his thumb and asks the mage if he will translate them immediately. Dorian agrees readily, after all, there could be proof of more Venatori in the region, or some sign of their plans.

"Where are you going?" he asks, already reading. Cullen pulls on his coat and opens the door of the tent.

"Scouting," he says simply.

The soldiers around adjust their attitude and posture when he comes near, and some are already grabbing for weapons. But they are good men, and they relax when he tells them to. "I'm just going for a walk," he insists. There are some who have fought more wars than just this one, and they are uncomfortable with the idea of their commander wandering off alone. But Cullen has proven himself more than capable of surviving, and it's still light out, and he swears he isn't going far.

The cold air is bracing, but with the sun shining, he feels almost warm. He's used to this kind of climate, anyway. He walks slowly, paying careful attention to his surroundings. The oppressive gloom of the corrupted lyrium seems to have lessened since they've destroyed every visible outcropping they could find in the past few days. The rest of the land seems mostly abandoned. He knows the area is honeycombed with more caves and old mines than he will ever have the time or inclination to truly catalog, yet he also believes that his quarry seeks solitude more than genuinely wishing to disappear. A part of him wonders if he really ought to go after her, but he's built too strong of an alliance with Leliana not to at least put in an effort. And, he must admit, he misses Mira. Eris has nothing in common with his former lover from Kirkwall, but helping mages still feels like something he ought to do whenever he can, if only for her sake.

And it gives him something to do, a distraction from the withdrawal. It's bad, worse here now than it has been at any point since the very start. Samson had laughed at the obviousness of his distress. Cullen scowls, and slips into the pine forest, following tracks left in the snow. No, she isn't trying to hide.

When he glances up, he sees her lingering in the entrance of one of the caves, watching him. She shies away as he approaches, but she makes no move to attack him, so he feels no fear. He can't even feel her collecting the mana he knows she possesses.

He smiles, trying to seem as unthreatening as possible. "Hello, Eris." She doesn't reply, though she tracks his every movement. "We'll be breaking camp in the morning," Cullen continues talking, calmly. "Will you be joining us?"

Her brow furrows in brief confusion, as though it had not occurred to her that she may have a choice. She nods, slowly. Cullen may be offering her the chance to run away, but there are people waiting for her in Skyhold. The soldier smiles and takes a few careful steps into the cave, sitting casually on a rock as though she'd invited him in for tea. He looks exhausted, somehow distracted and deep in thought, both at the same time.

"So," he says casually. "You and Dorian were of differing opinions as to the fate of the Venatori leader."

"She wasn't the leader." Cullen raises an eyebrow, curious as to how Eris could possibly know that, but he says nothing, and only nods for her to continue. "I couldn't kill her just because Dorian told me to," she demands. "I didn't... want... to."

She trails off, flush with embarrassment that rapidly shifts to aggression as she realizes that her protest is the kind of petulant whining she often hears from Rafe. Mana courses through her, undirected for the moment, though she flares it outward into one of the first and simplest forms she ever taught herself; an almost visible shield that springs up around her. It bleeds away slowly, then collapses completely when Cullen doesn't attack.

"You didn't want to," Cullen repeats. He sounds confused, but at least he isn't accusing her of treason.

Eris watches him cautiously, unable to make direct eye contact. Bright flashes of memory assault her mind, and she almost covers her ears in an effort to block their intensity.

She isn't fooling Cullen, obviously. He waits her out, reaching out gently with his mind, brushing up against her mana, trying to ease her into dropping her walls, just a little. She frowns, unaware that templars were capable of such subtle manipulations. She hasn't spent much time around them, and the little she does know had always made their powers seem to be far more centered on brute strength.

"You said she wasn't the leader," Cullen reminds her. "Who is?"

Eris shrugs. "The Venatori don't really have a leader. They're not an army, not really. They're... a religion, I suppose. Like the Chantry."

"The Chantry's led by the Divine."

Eris shrugs. "The Divine's dead. But the Chantry isn't." Cullen nods, silently conceding her point. "Anyway, Calpernia... she wasn't really part of them. She just got... confused, I think. She was angry. And she was scared."

Tears well up in Eris' eyes, threatening to fall. Shards of crystal stab at the inside of her pocket, some of it lyrium, but most of it simply mundane – though expensive – rock. She is keeping the magic inside it at bay for the moment, cloaking it from Cullen's abilities. Maybe one day she'll share the contents, but for now, Calpernia's memories seem like something Eris needs to protect, at least until she can make herself understand them.

Cullen smiles, and tells the elven scout that her reading of Calpernia is surprisingly similar to the way he has come to see the Red Templars Samson commanded. "You think they're being manipulated, don't you?" he asks. When Eris looks up, his eyes are hard, flaring with excited aggression, already seeking a true enemy to fight.

She nods, cautiously. "The Venatori... they were trying to open the Veil enough to coax something through," she reminds him. "An ancient magister."

"An old god. They wish to start another Blight?"

"They want to rebuild a New Tevinter. But I do not believe they have any conception of what such a thing would truly mean. Anyway, they'll need red lyrium to do it, and your templars, newly adrift... they gave them what they wanted. I think they have lived past their usefulness now, though. The Venatori must be eager to rid themselves of such loose ends."

"And no doubt Samson knows it," Cullen mutters. "It explains his cooperative attitude thus far."

"He may still be an asset."

"Aye. He may indeed."

* * *

Transporting such a high-value prisoner makes getting to Skyhold quickly a priority, yet their small band of Inquisition agents still meets up with Gaspard in a small hunting lodge about a day's travel from Val Royeaux, to check up on the state of the Trevelyan's political alliances in Orlais. Samson is kept bound and unconscious through both physical and magical means, and well-guarded. Dorian is among those who keeps watch on the man, whistling cheerfully as he sits on the cart just in front of Samson's cage, watching as the sun sets over the bright tile roof of the mostly crumbling estate a short distance away. Only the Orlesians would put such gaudy tile on a hunting lodge.

Inside, in a room lined with untouched books and old rugs, the new Emperor seems a tad overwhelmed, but Cullen only smiles cheerfully and urges him to keep the faith. Gaspard asks Cullen for Inquisition help against the compounding threats to the Orlesian Empire: demons still pressing into the world at far-flung tears in the Veil, peasants going missing, whole villages falling prey to bandits if they're lucky, and overrun by templars driven insane by this new form of lyrium if they're not. And, of course, the Tevinter blood mages encroaching at the borders.

Cullen, as expected, reminds the Orlesian liege of the Inquisition's victories against every such threat thus far, and assures the man that Jacob Trevelyan will send what aid he can, but makes no specific promises.

Eris notes a surprising absence of elven servants in the Orlesian nobleman's retinue, the kind of detail that makes her itch for a couple of weeks in Halamshiral or even the alienage of the capital, somewhere where she can get a more accurate reading of what's really happening.

She slips away from the rest of the group while people are mostly paying attention to Cullen's negotiations with Gaspard. She won't make it as far as the city, but the gardens, where a group of Gaspard's common soldiers loiter, might be just as informative. She fiddles with her clothing as she walks. It's made for blending into the woods, lightly armored enough for her to defend herself in a fight if she has to. It's certainly not designed to flaunt her womanly features, but she does the best she can.

The results she gets are hardly worth the trouble. Before she makes it past the courtyard, she walks right into Varric, who looks her up and down with an appreciative grin and a soft whistle, but stops her all the same. "We're not here to spy," the dwarf reminds her.

She rolls her eyes. "You can hardly blame me for taking the opportunity."

"Relax. These guys don't know anything."

"How would you know that unless you were spying too?"

"Me? Come on, love. I was just telling some stories."

"Fine," Eris sighs. "You wanna tell me some?"

They wind up sitting on an ancient pile of stone steps at the edge of the grounds, passing around a flask of booze and just... talking. It's surprisingly easy for Eris to relax with Varric; he honestly doesn't seem to want anything from her. He pulls out a deck of cards and deals her into a two-player variant of Wicked Grace without asking if she wants to play. She tries, but this isn't her kind of game, and she's lost most of her coin by the time he stops shuffling a few rounds in, looking toward the Orlesian lodge.

"Looks like Curly's finished his meeting," he points out, nodding at the commander as he wraps his cloak a little tighter around his shoulder and heads back toward the Inquisition camp. "Guess we'll be on our way, then."

Cullen looks directly at them, meeting Eris' eyes and knitting his brows in a question. But he smiles quick enough when she stands up, and falls into step behind him.

Skyhold awaits, several days journey away, still, even taking the roads. But it finally seems like they're at least headed in the right direction.


	20. Chapter 20

"Fasta vass!" Rafe spits, as his marble rolls to a stop just on the wrong side of the circle. Eris almost chokes, hearing him cursing in her language. But she recovers quickly. She'll save the lecture for another time.

Instead, she crouches next to him, concentrating enough to send the marble over the line with a magical touch. Rafe spins around, looking up at her with confusion.

"I used to be pretty good at this," she admits.

"Mama!" he squeals. A grin instantly lights up his face and makes it easy to remember how young and innocent he is, despite the anger he's been trying on like an adults too-large clothes. He scrambles into her arms, nearly bowling her over in his enthusiasm. "You're back! You came back."

"Of course I did," Eris murmurs. Her voice is rough with barely-contained emotion. She buries her face in his tangled, sweaty hair, breathing in the smell of him. Her boy. Of course she came back to him.

She holds him tightly, aware of the glares of the other, older children around the ring that has been carefully scratched in a muddy patch of Skyhold's courtyard garden. She gives them what she hopes is a reassuring smile, then looks to Rafe for a cue as to how to interact with them. He slips out of her grasp, but refuses to let go of her hand.

"Mama," he insists, suddenly quite serious once again. "Can I come with you?"

His fingers tighten around hers, almost enough to hurt. But when she reaches out with her mana to brush lightly against his feelings and thoughts, he is calm enough, almost glowing. Eris looks down at her son. She is unwilling to force another separation from him so soon, even a brief one, even though she is going to meet with Leliana. She nods.

Rafe sticks out his tongue at one of the sullen older boys, and grins triumphantly. Eris notices the interaction, of course, but says nothing. Several minutes later, as they climb the winding steps up to the literal crow's nest that Leliana has stolen for an office, Eris gives Rafe the couple of marbles that still rested in her hand. He smiles at her again.

"Hello, Rafe." Leliana says smoothly, scratching at the feathered head of a crow that digs sharp claws into her desk.

"Hi," the boy responds shyly. He stuffs the marbles into his pocket and lingers at the top of the stairs, pulling away from Eris. The elven woman stays back too, keeping her eyes mostly on her employer, marveling at the ease with which Leliana interacts with Rafe. She hands the boy a candy wrapped in fancy colored paper, pulled from a drawer under her desk. He takes it and puts it in his pocket, wanting to save it. So she gives him another one to eat now. As Rafe sucks on the sugary treat, Leliana glides smoothly over to Eris. The two of them lean over the balcony, listening to the cawing of the crows.

"The Inquisitor will publicly pronounce judgement upon the templar Samson tomorrow morning," Leliana says.

"But that isn't what you want to talk about."

A familiar smile appears on Leliana's face, and she nods. Eris is one of her best for a reason. Direct, even blunt, and much smarter than maybe even she realizes. "I trust Trevelyan's judgement," she agrees. "And Cullen will keep an eye on the situation, no matter how it plays out."

"You want to know about Calpernia."

"Of course I do. The Venatori are the real threat."

Eris sighs, turning away from Leliana and seeking comfort in watching Rafe, who sits in the spymaster's too-large chair and rifles through the unimportant papers she has left on the top of her desk, unable to make sense of the messy scrawls of handwriting in several languages.

"You're nothing like her, little bird," Leliana says softly. Her fingers are soft, reassuring, when they rest atop Eris' hand.

Eris glares at her, annoyed at how easily the spymaster can see through her. It unsettles her, and makes her reach for old defense mechanisms, though by now she trusts Leliana. She owes the woman too much to believe that the bard would ever hurt her. Besides, Rafe is watching. He wouldn't be here if it wasn't safe.

"How do you know?" Eris murmurs.

She hands Leliana the memory crystals before the other woman asks. Eris is generally uncertain that the fragments of Calpernia's life contained wihin them will be any help to the Inquisition, especially since the woman herself is now dead.

Leliana accepts at the magical objects, but sets them aside. She focuses on Eris, instead. "You're not like her," she repeats. "Tevinter retains no hold on you."

Eris wants to believe that's true – but it isn't. She shakes her head, aware that Rafe is watching her, the worry on his face suddenly making him seem much older than his six years. It reminds her of the things she'd seen and felt at his age, all the reasons why she'd run. The stories Calpernia hid away in lyrium-etched gemstones are frighteningly similar. "I'm still afraid of them," Eris admits.

Leliana nods, then gently guides Eris over to her desk, pulling out a bottle of brandy and pouring it into two small cups. "That's why you didn't kill her?" she guesses. "There is a part of you that still fears punishment."

"Maybe," Eris mutters, gulping down the liquor. It is a simple explanation, but one that does not feel entirely correct. She looks over at Rafe, who has wandered over to the cages full of crows. They do not shy away from him the way they do most people, though perhaps that's because he tempts them with bits of bread.

"It is because you are not like her," Leliana insists. "You felt compassion for her. She would not have offered the same to you."

"She wanted me to join her," Eris points out.

"But you didn't."

"No," Eris agrees. "That's not who I am anymore."

She finishes the rest of the whiskey and heads over to Rafe, flinching at the closeness of the crows. They are loud and obnoxious, but Rafe feeds the last of them, a smaller bird, perhaps a juvenile itself, before he turns back to Eris.

She immediately notices the nervous glance he casts toward Leliana, and she knows they have a lot to talk about. "Come on," she tells her son. "Let's go get something to eat."

* * *

The Chargers grin at Rafe as soon as he runs ahead to claim a spot at their table. The mercenary company takes up most of a fairly large dining room nestled behind the bar in Skyhold's tavern. More of them trickle in as the afternoon begins in earnest, the midday meal allowing them a break from their work or sparring or trading or whatever it is they get up to all day.

Rafe climbs up onto the bench between Stitches and Dalish. Krem smiles at the boy from his place at the head of the table, but it is the Iron Bull who is most boisterously glad to see the child, and his mother.

The Qunari gathers Eris into a powerful hug, then kisses her deeply, without regard for their audience. He whispers something in her ear that makes her blush, and keeps her close, pulling her onto his lap as he sits down and waves a hand in the general direction of the bar, calling for food and drink.

"It's been a long time since I've had a pretty barmaid on my knee," he teases.

"It's been a long time since I've been a barmaid."

The warmth of Bull's bare chest is comforting, and Eris doesn't protest any of the things he's doing. His fingers tease her under the table, resting on her inner thigh, but mostly they just enjoy being together again. Eris would love to do... other things, to let him fuck her until she's too exhausted to think. It's obvious by his hungry touches and the flicker in his eyes that he wants the same thing. But they can wait.

Plates of roasted meats and vegetables and breads soon appear, passed down the table along with copious amounts of ale. The Chargers laugh and share tales, each trying to one-up the others. No one asks Eris about her mission to hunt down the Venatori, assuming correctly that if she wanted to talk about it, she would. Mixed in with the mercenaries' war stories are appreciative remarks on the mischief Rafe has gotten up to in his mother's absence.

The boy ducks his head, his ears turning red. And the look he gives Eris across the table carries tangible fear. It's Krem who steps in, coming to the child's rescue. "He's been driving those Chantry women to tears," he says, with easy laughter. He even raises a glass to toast the boy. Bull too, echoes the laughter, giving Eris another quick kiss and congratulating her on the fine son she's raising.

Rafe looks confused for a long moment, but he relaxes as soon as it becomes apparent that he isn't in any trouble. People keep passing him food, spicy and sweet things he's never tasted before, and he eats all of it until his stomach hurts, and loves it.

Bull keeps teasing Eris with his fingers under the table, until she can't stand it anymore and she's about to scream. The Chargers keep giving each other knowing looks, until she threatens them with a bit of lightning dancing through her fingers, a warning to keep their damned mouths shut. Bull laughs, long and loud, and wraps Eris' fingers in his own before he stands up, excusing the both of them from the table.

After the comforting chaos of the tavern, the upstairs room the Qunari has claimed feels so quiet that Eris imagines she can hear her own heart beating, a little too fast. She stands just inside the door, wondering if she should close it, as Bull rummages around through a large satchel tucked into a corner. When he turns around, there is something wrapped inside his hand. A little bit of dark thin rope is visible, dangling from his hand. Bull raises an eyebrow when he sees the door still open, and he pulls it tightly shut before clearing his throat. He barely makes eye contact with Eris as he pushes the... whatever it is... into her hand.

"What's this?" she asks him, before she even looks at it.

The Qunari shrugs. "I dunno," he answers, although he does. He feels a lot less certain about this than he does about most things. "It's... like a present. Kind of." It's not the kind of thing that's easy to explain. It doesn't come up very often. Even though he's been practicing what he'll say for weeks, while she's been gone, afraid he'll get it wrong.

Eris looks down at the object now resting against her palm. The gift is rough and ugly, so large that she can barely wrap her hand around it. A leather braid has been hastily threaded through a hole punched in the sharp stone.

Bull regards her steadily, with his single unblinking eye. His lip stretches downward, the way it does when he's deep in thought, carefully mulling over his words. Eris finds herself holding her breath, though she isn't sure why.

"Look," he rumbles, and he rests his huge hand across her back, between her narrow shoulderblades. Even through her shirt, the warmth of his touch makes her shiver. She burrows closer to him, craving more. Bull smiles appreciatively. He blows out a long breath, through his nose, and the air whistles with a familiar music. He clears his throat, then plunges forward. "The Qun doesn't do this bullshit with relationships the way you people do out here. There's no word for love in Qunlat. But when you... fuck it... when you love someone..." he bows his head, struggling to force the words out. He pulls out his own half of the necklace, the match to the one he's just given her. He runs his thumb over the jagged edge. "You remember that dragon we killed?" he asks needlessly. Of course she does.

"This is... ?"

"One of the teeth," he confirms. "The biggest one. You cut it in half so that if you... drift apart... even if you're not together, you are."

He slips the necklace over Eris' head, whispering the closest thing to a prayer that Qunlat has as he does so that she'll accept the gift. It rests alongside the Chantry pendant that ties her to her son. She holds them both in one loose fist. "Thank you, Bull," she murmurs.

He ties his own half of the dragon's tooth around his neck, feeling it's comforting weight against his bare just, above the heart. He wraps his arm more solidly around Eris' waist, and kisses her head gently. First her head, then her ear, then her lips. She squirms in his arms and he grins, easily keeping her searching hands away from his nether regions. "Patience," he insists, though she's already trembling in his arms. He can feel his length hardening, but waiting will make it better.

"You're evil," she mutters, and he only laughs.

He presses down on her shoulder, pushing her down onto the one bed in the tavern's rooms big enough to hold him comfortably.

Bull finds that when Eris hesitates, nervous and uncertain in a way she hasn't been for months, maybe years, that what he wants more than anything is to take things slow.

There have been many times through this apocalyptic nightmare of a war when they've gone at it fast and rough. In his bedroom, or hers, or behind the bar in the tavern, even once on the war table while Josephine worked in her office just on the other side of the wall. This time is different.

Eris seems to recognize it too. Although she is obviously aroused, her breathing quicker and more shallow, her skin flushed, her eyes wide with pupils dilating even in the still-bright afternoon light pouring in through the room's single window. She doesn't throw herself at the Qunari. She lets him take things slow, holding herself still as his larger fingers struggle to pull her shirt over her head. He grins when he realises she hadn't been wearing anything under it. She smiles back, moaning softly as he takes her breast in his hand and licks at it. She smacks him, teasingly, but he doesn't stop. He takes his nipple in her mouth and sucks. Eris arcs her head back and reaches out for him, trying to pull his body closer to hers, but he keeps himself safely out of her reach. He bites down, gently, then squeezes her shoulder with his free hand. Eris shivers in anticipation as he pulls away from her just long enough to move his fingers down to the waistband of the pants she's wearing.

Then she's naked except for the two pendants laced around her neck: the Chantry sun and the dragon tooth. And Bull fucks her until they're both exhausted and she curls up half-asleep against his chest as the sunset colors stream into the room. She's too tired to ask any questions. Her eyes drift closed. Bull is snoring softly at her back and she can feel his figers resting on her hip and the rise and fall of his breathing rustles through her tangled hair. Eventually Rafe crawls into bed with them and neither of them bother to push him away.

Eris stirs, shifting to give her son a little bit more space. Her eyes flutter open, briefly, and Bull kisses the top of her head, moaning slightly. Just before she falls asleep again, she hears him whisper something. It sounds like "kadan."


End file.
